STANZAS 

AND 

SKETCHES. 



BY 



JAMES J. O'CONNELL. 



BROOKLYN : 

JAMES J. O'CONNELL, 

1883. 



^ 












BROOKLYN: 
PRESS OF JAMES J. O'CONNELL 



TO 

JAMES ROSEVELT GLEASON, 

WHO, 

THOUGH HUMAN, 

HAS EVER BEEN MY FRIEND, 

THIS VOLUME 

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 



PREFACE 



TN publishing his first thin volume of juvenalia, 
-*- it is customary for the young author to make 
this the vehicle for excuses, as though he had been 
guilty of some crime. In my case, I have no excuse 
to offer. This volume contains a selection of my 
contributions to the amateur press during the past 
two years, and comprises all I desire to preserve. 
In one respect, I am sure, this little book will be 
more fortunate than many others of greater preten- 
sions ; for, as it will circulate only among my 
personal friends and fellow-workers in the cause of 
amateur journalism, I can reasonably expect to carry 
my readers beyond the preface. 

We are told that one can make himself understood 
much easier, and with fewer words, in conversation 
than in writing. I have often thought that the 
reader, however appreciative, can never understand 
a sentiment so fully as the writer. We have all 
heard of how the poet, while under the influence of 
the divine afflatus, has torn his hair and foamed at 
the mouth on being delivered of a happy thought. 



Vlll PREFACE. 

But he is indeed fortunate if his words arouse more 
than a passing feeling in the heart of his reader. 
To me, these con amore articles mean a great deal ; 
they mean more, perhaps, than I would wish the 
reader to know. Literature has been my recreation : 
I have pursued it with the spirit of Spenser's angels, 
" All for love, and nothing for reward." From 
necessity, and not inclination, I have been compelled 
to say with Henry Kirke White : 

For me the day 
Hath duties which require the vigorous hand 
Of steadfast application, but which leave 
No deep improving trace upon the mind. 
But be the day another's ; — let it pass ! 
The night's my own ! They cannot steal my night ! 
When Evening lights her folding star on high. 
I live and breathe ; and in the sacred hours 
Of quiet and repose my spirit flies, 
Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space, 
And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for Heaven. 

Brooklyn, January, 1883. 



CONTENTS 



STANZAS. 

Mammon, Our City Boys 

The Hermit's Dream, . Paragon . . 

What the Wind Did, . Pilot . . . 

Dereliction, .... Our Sanctum 

Imprisoned, .... Youth's Enterprise 

Thoughts of the Holidays, Northern Breezes 

Lines, Our Sanctum 

Camoens, Golden Moments 

While the tear in thine Eye, Scrutinize}- . 

Anacreontic, .... Le Critique . 

After Many Years, . . Mentor . . 

A Shell Paragon .' . 

The Cynic to his Books, Our Sanctum 

Byron, Junior Press 

Stanzas to Myra, . . . Ark . . . 

How Gay are the Spirits, Youth's Enterp 

Sunrise, Lantern . 

The Suicide, .... Bugle 

Voila Tout, Bay State Brilliant 

Child of Nature, . . . Thames Budget 



PAGE 

I 

7 

12 

14 
16 
18 

20 

22 

24 

25 
26 
29 
30 

3 1 
3 2 
33 
34 
36 
37 
39 



CONTENTS. 



The First Snow, 

Annie, 

To a Friend, 

Hope, .... 

Snow-Bound, 

The Death of Love 

Lines, .... 

Stanzas, 

Kismet, . . . 

The Pharisee, 

The Robin, . 

My Lady, Playing, 

Lines, .... 

Rondeau, . . . 

Vanities in Verse, 



Pedestal 
Grit . . 
Sentinel . 
Advocate 
Sunflower 
Young Amet 
Youth's Enterpi 
Eclipse . . 
Eclipse 
Mayflower . 
Paragon 
Amateur Sun 



4i 

42 

43 

45 
46 

47 
49 

5° 
5i 

5 2 
53 
54 
55 
56 
57 



SKETCHES. 

The Pleasures of Solitude, Detroit Amateui 
Ethel Ark . . . 



T|?e Bore, .... 

Seth, 

Christmas Afterthoughts, 
Daddy's Dust, . . . 
The Bird of Love, . . 
The Vagabond, . . . 
The Apostate of Love, 



Paragon 

Paragon 

Amateur Sun 

Enterprise . 

Detroit A mate id 
Young America 
Young America 



63 

69 

76 

84 

9i 

97 

104 

108 

118 



STANZAS 



MAMMON. 

A man's a man, for a' that. — Burns. 

OH ! mighty Mammon ! in thy sway secure, 
Slave of the rich, and monarch of the poor ! 
Judge of all men, of all the universe, 
Man's truest friend, and yet his greatest curse :— 
Squandered in youth, to be in old age sought, 
Man loves thee better as his life grows short. 

For thee the Bravo plies his barbarous trade, 
Making of life a bloodly masquerade. 

For thee the Statesman, in his proud array, 
Damns his own name, and falls a willing prey ; 
While breaking, where he should sustain, the laws, 
Forsakes his party and his party's cause. 
False to his friends, and toady to his foes, 
Soon he gets rich — but how ? — God only knows ! 

For thee the Preacher in the pulpit stands. 
Opes the wide mouth and waves the grasping hands ; 
No more to God his tender flock he leads, 
But loudly fights the Battle of the Creeds ; 
See how he stands, all damned except his own — 
A little God upon a little throne ! 



2 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

Full well he feigns the counterfeited tear 
Where Poverty runs shrieking in despair ; 
While the rich wines upon his table spread 
Would clothe the naked, give the hungry bread. 

For thee the Maiden spurns her laboring swain, 
Leaves all she loves, and joins the tinselled train 
To dance attendance on some wealthy rake. 
Unmindful she, her honor all at stake, 
Prefers a tawdry and a shameful life, 
Being his mistress, than a poor man's wife. 

For thee the Poor Relation, humbly grave, 
Foregoes her freedom and becomes a slave ; 
Soon learns to draw the sympathetic tear 
At her friend's griefs, for sundry pounds a - year. 
Though met by insult, though repulsed with scorn, 
Her pride sore wounded, and her lot forlorn, 
Yet will she flatter ; weaving, as she smiles, 
'A thread of candor with a web of wiles.' 

The thin-clad Miser, gloating o'er his store, 
Counts piece by piece, and ever longs for more ; 
Views, with rapt eye, along the glittering hoard, 
And loves it better than he loves his Lord ! 
Charmed with the sight, so charming to behold, 
The gold is tarnished, yet it still is gold ! 
When lo ! what terror flashes from his eye, 
Bursts in a groan, and withers to a sigh ! 
As with his long, attenuated hand 
He plucks one coin from out the chosen band : 



MAMMON. 3 

Sounds on the table the suspicious piece, 
Its worth to test ; and, as his fears decrease, 
He rubs it briskly on his shrunken shank, 
And lightly drops it in his stocking - bank. 
Then drawing from amidst his treasures mixed 
A single coin, unto a ribbon fixed ; 
Once more he sees the sad and weeping maid 
Who to his care this votive pledge conveyed ; 
Once more he grins to see her eyes grow dim — 
Well could he smile — her tears were not for him ! 
And as the faded ends of silk unfold, 
He sighs to think that they too are not gold. 

Lo ! stands the Bard ! the Muses weep to see 
Their favored son to Mammon bend the knee; 
When pinched with want, without a friend to soothe, 
The ill-starred poet prostitutes his muse. 
Deserting honor and its kindred ties, 
He, flying from danger, into danger flies ; 
And lost to shame, stands at his patron's nod, 
Ready to damn his fellow and his God. 
Yet such the charm, sweet Poetry, is thine ! 
Thy grace angelic, and thy voice divine, 
Teach us with pity o'er his faults to scan — 
To love the poet, and forget the man ! 

Behold the Mistress of the Village School ! 
Not the aged dame, by practise skilled to rule, 
But the young nymph who, brought up in the town, 
Left her own home to teach the country clown. 



4 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

Perverse her act, yet she has cause to show 
Her home unhappy — for she made it so ! 
Self-willed herself, and tardy to obey 
Her parents' word ; as obstinate as they, 
111 could she brook the chiding glance and word 
Received from parents whom she now abhorred. 
Before her class she stands, with opened book, 
Scorn on her lip and anger in her look ; 
Shallow of knowledge, her blear eye must reach 
The answer to the question she would teach ! 
And yet, withal, she prospers passing fair — 
They want no genius, having no genius there ! 
Though scorned by many, and esteemed by few, 
Though scholars hate her, yet they fear her too ; 
Still is she happy, and if sometimes sad, 
'T is to behold a fellow - creature glad ! 
Upon the Sabbath to the church she hies, 
Quick with her ears and busy with her eyes ; 
Chanting in concert as the organ plays, 
How God must blush to hear her sing his praise ! 
The class is formed ; the answers soon express 
The class knows little and the teacher less : 
For since the day the children met before, 
Not once her eyes have scanned the lesson o'er. 
Yet she instructs them, nor in words concise, 
To follow Virtue and refrain from Vice ; 
Then prays to God their plastic minds to shield 
From Byron, Shelley, Burns, and Chesterfield. 
Till, like herself, the little flock is seen 
All narrow-minded, bigoted and mean! 



MAMMON. 5 

Abashed with fear, not one has pluck to say : 
' What art thou better, meddling fool, than the)' ?' 
For underneath her seeming truth and grace 
Lurks the black heart — no index to the face. 
( Beneath such armor is it strange to find 
The sordid soul and mercenary mind?) 
As she at Mammon's shrine now humbly bows, 
Forsakes her lover and her maiden vows, 
She gives to Virtue one last farewell view, 
And then to Honor bids a long adieu ! 
Next she engages — anxious still to rule — 
The aged director of the village school ; 
Though thrice her age, still amorously inclined, 
He, for a foster - father, proves most kind ; — 
And she submits, t' retain her paltry place, 
To his lewd kisses and his foul embrace ; 
And should she sometimes find his passion cold, 
'T would know no limit were he not so old ! 
While sharp compunction for her own mistake 
Would break her heart — had she a heart to break ! 

Mammon ! there is no limit to the crimes 
That mark thy reign throughout a thousand climes ! 
Sly as the serpent doomed for evermore 
To drag its length along the Stygian shore, 
Man sinks beneath the magic of thy spell, 
And hates his fellow — loving thee so well ! 
On fertile plains, on barren, desert ground ; 
Upon the rocks where mighty billows bound ; 
'Neath azure skies, and Arctic's frozen zone ; 



6 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

On lucid streams, and where the tempests moan 
Where'er we go — where'er our footsteps stray, 
Mammon ! the Universe bows to thy sway! — 
Wealth cannot make man happy, it is true ; 
But without wealth, the happy men are few ! 



w 



THE HERMIT'S DREAM. 

"HERE towering mountains rear their height 
And leap to meet the bending skies ; 
Where halts the eagle in his flight 
To rest, before he onward flies : 
There, shines more bright the starry fleet, 
Where earth and heaven nearest meet. 

Far, far remote from human eye, 
Where none save pilgrim ever knelt 
In reverence to Him on high, 
In solitude a Hermit dwelt — 
A penitent, with none to love, 
Who hoped for mercy from above. 

He left the busy world below 

To flee the horror of a crime ; 

To hide a ghastly tale of woe 

That stained his very soul. Though time 

Had eased him of the keenest smart, 

Memory kept gnawing at his heart. 

His brow was stern, and wrinkled o'er 
With gaping furrows, deeply set ; 
While on his face he constant wore 



8 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

A gloom that one could ne'er forget — 
A haggard mien that well defied 
The closest cowl or hood to hide ! 

Vague fears by day, unrest by night, 
Made him grow loathsome to himself ! 
Till oft, when paled red Phoebus' light, 
He crawled upon some rocky shelf 
To die, but quailed at the abyss — 
Could any hell be worse than this ? 

'T was midnight. — In his narrow cell 
Upon a truss the Hermit lay, 
Where phantoms o'er his slumber fell 
And snatched all hope of peace away ! 
He slept, but o'er his sleep there came 
A vision linked with all his shame. 

He dreamt he was a boy again, 

A happy, joyous, careless boy ; 

How could he but be jocund, when 

He was his mother's fadeless joy ? 

He lived once more those childhood days 

When angels crowned his brow with bays. 

The years rolled on — he was a youth ; 
Buoyed up by thoughts of future fame, 
He rallied round the flag of Truth, 
And hoped to win a lasting name : 
Then he was young, and little knew 
The lamp of Fame but shines for few. 



THE HERMIT S DREAM. 

The vision changed — he was in love ; 
All thoughts of fame were then forgot ; 
A star seemed fallen from above, 
And raised him from the common lot : 
Rais'd him so high on Pleasure's throne, 
He scorned to deem the world his own. 

O those were lucid intervals ! 
When, fleeing from his daily toil, 
They hand in hand paced Fancy's halls, 
With hearts entwined in Cupid's coil : 
The sun shone brighter, and at night 
The moon gave forth a clearer light. 

But Mammon thrust his bloodless hand 
And reared a barrier in their love ; 
Hope trembled at the dread command, 
Grew faint, and fled to realms above : 
While Fate's sad curtain softly stole, 
In mantling folds, around his soul. 

He felt her ravished from his side, 
He heard her spirit's wild regret, 
He saw her made another's bride, 
He heard her promise to forget « — 
Ay, to forget her plighted troth, 
Once pledged to him by lovers' oath. 

His spirits fell, but as they sank 
Revenge within his bosom rose ; 
His thirsty soul full quickly drank 



IO STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

The poison drops that Hate bestows : 
He drank, but could not quench the fires 
Kindled by hate and love's desires. 

Had not his rage and hatred stirred 

Conflicting passions in his breast ; 

Had not revenge his spirit lured 

Into a self - deceiving rest, 

The loss of her he held most dear 

Were more than single heart could bear ! 



Had Death but snatched her from his grasp, 
Then he had bowed to Fate's decree ; 
But to see her in his rival's clasp 
Was worse than any death could be ! 
For where'er Death its mantle flings, 
Fond Memory around it clings. 

Hate whispered in his eager ear : 

' He stole your bride — she was your life ; 

'T was he who wedded you to Care 

To make your years with sorrow rife : 

Fear not your chastisement to meet, 

But lay him low — revenge is sweet ! ' 

As winds upon the tinder blow, 

That long a slumbering spark has nursed, 

Will cause the latent flame to glow 

And in a blazing torrent burst ; 

So, on his heart these promptings fell, 

And lashed within his breast a hell. 



THE HERMITS DREAM. II 

Urged on by hate, abashed by fear, 
With bated breath, and stealthy tread, 
(Like when a tiger nears its lair) 
He glided toward the bridal bed ; — 
Pity his bosom never knew, 
Since Mercy bade his soul adieu ! 

Hate aimed so well, no stifled cry 

Followed the movement of the stroke ; 

But from the black o'erarching sky 

The wrath of God in thunder spoke : 

He, by the lurid lightning, saw 

The woman's breast all red with gore ! . . . . 

The Hermit woke, but woke to die ! 

To feel his life's blood ebb away, 

To welcome with his dying sigh 

The red Aurora of the day : 

For the blade that pierced his loved Celeste 

Had found its sheath within his breast ! 



WHAT THE WIND DID. 

'T is an ill wind blows no one good. 
I. 

It roused the waters of the ocean 

And lashed the waves in wild commotion, 

And on the rocks it cast 

A gallant ship, now homeward bound ; 

The spars it crushed with mournful sound, 

And terrifying blast. 

II. 

The swaying masts went by the board, 
By cruel rocks the hull was gored, 
And on the storm - bound air . 
Re-echoed far and wide the wail 
Of tortured souls, above the gale — 
Distress was everywhere ! 

III. 
Before its breeze securely ran, 
From foreign climes, the merchantman, 
Unto her moorings free ; 
Restored the sailor to his bride, 
Made glad the cheerless fireside 
With festival and glee. 



WHAT THE WIND DID. 
IV. 

With humming sound the fresh wind flings 

Around the windmill's mighty wings, 

With eager pace and swift ; 

It grinds the harvest of the fields, 

To rich and poor its bounty yields 

With lavish hand — yet thrift. 

V. 

It filled the child's heart with delight 

To have it waft his playful kite 

Far up into the skyl; 

Where, like a fettered bird, it strove 

To free itself, and ever rove 

Once more the welkin high. 

VI. 
Athwart the church - yard's sacred ground, 
With many a melancholy sound, 
Its whispering murmurs spread ; 
To chant in the voice of the unseen choir, 
All pregnant with the sobbing lyre, 
A requiem o'er the dead. 

VII. 

Let not a man lament his lot, 

Nor think his life is but a blot 

Upon the scroll of Fame : 

The hand that dealt his keenest grief 

May soon reveal another leaf 

Embellished with his name. 



L 



DERELICTION. 

Love still a boy, and oft a wanton, is. — Sir Philip Sydney. 

ONG years had vanish'd ere their love took flight 
From its close prison — like unto the morn 
That grows in splendor from the dying night ; — 
A friendship perished, Jout a love was horn ! 

It was a little rosy boy and fair, 

Most delicate, and fragile was its frame; 

But from their hearts, so loving, breathed an air 

That nurtured it, and fanned the sacred flame. 

They saw it wax in strength from day to day, 
And they were wondrous happy in the sight ; 
For when it smiled, it drove their cares away ; 
But when it frowned, their day was turned to night. 

This love that gained possession of their hearts, 
And charmed to sweet repose their twofold souls, 
Was innocent of guile, and of the arts 
And misery that jealousy unfolds. 

But they were far too happy in their love 
To live forever thus ; the moon, at times, 
Serenely sailing through the sky above, 
Shines bright to some, but dim to other climes. 



DERELICTION. 1 5 

A cloud came o'er the welkin of their joy, 
And sunk his star of fortune in despair ; 
Robed in a veil of black their cherished boy — 
So black, not even Love could enter there ! 

The cloud that crossed the sunshine of their peace 
Was one who envied them their happiness ; 
Who planned, with deep manceuvrings to decrease 
Their joy, and plunge their hearts into distress. 

He was one of the many men who take 
A sordid pleasure, and a savage joy, 
In sowing seeds of discord and mistake 
Atween those hearts whose love knew no alloy. 

An unseen power aided in his suit ! 
Their darling boy, erstwhile so full of glee, 
Soon died and turned to ashes, like the fruit 
That floats upon the breast of the Dead Sea. 

How diff'rent feels the object from the cause 
Of woman's perfidy ! He who succeeds, 
Smiles o'er his triumph, greets her with applause, 
Unmindful of the broken heart that bleeds. 

O woman ! graced with charms to catch the eye ! 

And subtle power to ensnare the heart ! 

Yet, whilst as fickle as an April sky, 

An ever -willing slave at Mammon's mart. 



IMPRISONED. 

I SPIED beneath a grove of yielding yews 
A tiny flower ; 
And wondered how so dainty bud could choose 
So mean a bower. 

It looked so lonely, all bereft of kin, 
I dug it up ; 

And, going to my chamber, placed it in 
A crystal cup. 

Upon the window - sill, where shone the sun, 
My floweret stood ; 

And as its leaves unfolded, one by one, 
My solitude 

Seemed penetrated by their odors sweet, 
When, at the dawn, 

With half - awakened eyes, I turned to greet 
The day new - born. 

I learned to love that floweret with a love 

My youth had known ; 

'Twas strange so small a thing my heart could move, 

Now callous grown. 



IMPRISONED. 17 

But as my happiness increased, I saw 
Its little heart 

Sink slowly into sadness ; while a hoar 
Spread round each part. 

And as it slowly withered, day by day, 

With plea devout 

My plant, like Sterne's sad starling, seemed to say : 

' Let me get out ! ' 

I saw it fade away, as fades a dream 
We dream by day — 
One of those visionary views that seem 
Too bright to stay. 

Until at last that tiny, tender crest, 

Once turned toward me, 

Sank tired and meekly on the Parent's breast — 

My flower was free ! 

Alas ! how many like that simple flower 
From lonely place 

Are taken, and wear out the gilded hour 
In crystal vase ; 

Nor know, till late, 't is better we dwell free 
In lonely vale, 

Than in some fretted, pompous page to be 
A gilded tale. 



THOUGHTS OF THE HOLIDAYS. 

To meet, to know, to love — and then to part, 

Is the sad tale of many a human heart. — Coleridge. 

THE lazy breeze is whispering overhead, 
As in my hammock, swinging to and fro, 
I lift Oblivion's veil from off the dead, 
And view the friends I knew so long ago. 

While half - asleep, indulging in day - dreams 
Of airy castles when my ship comes home, 
Upon the beach a lovely figure seems, 
Like Aphrodite, rising from the foam. 

I look again — ah, me ! I know that face, 
Those laughing eyes, those chubby arms that brave 
The power of Neptune, as, with peerless grace, 
She leaps into the close - embracing wave. 

As two lone birds, in unfamiliar wood, 
Both seeking rest, yet both inclined to love, 
By meeting oft, disdain their solitude, 
And tune their mingled lay along the grove ; 



THOUGHTS OF THE HOLIDAYS. 19 

So we, who fled the busy haunts of men 
To seek communion with the lovelier clime, 
By casual meetings in some brake or glen, 
Our solitude was robbed of its sublime. 

Sweet were the kisses that I might have had ! 
And oh! how kind the words I might have said! 
But with those words I never dared to clad 
The hidden meaning we both plainly read. 

The engine whistles; now her hand in mine 
Confiding rests. The words that I would say 
Freeze on my lips, and then my dream divine 
Has, like the summer, gently passed away. 



LINES, 

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND, ON HIS ADVISING THE 
AUTHOR TO MINGLE MORE IN SOCIETY. 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 
And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'T is something better not to be. — Byron. 

REFRAIN, dear Jim, and ask me not 
To mingle in the haunts of men ; 
The past, which I would wish forgot, 
Would only be recalled again. 

Why should I join the surging throng, 
To prey upon my fellow - men ? 
Why should I struggle with the strong, 
To perish in the human fen ? 

I was not born to trample down 
My fellows in an humbler sphere ; 
I could not brook the curse and frown 
The usurer meets everywhere. 

1 hate the noisy paths of life, 

The vacant laugh, the hollow praise ; 



LINES. 2 1 

I hate the base, ignoble strife 

To which mankind devote their days. 

Nor think it strange that I should say 
New scenes could not abate my sorrow ; 
I know that e'er so sad to - day, 
My heart will sadder be to - morrow. 

To all my faults no malice add — 
Not 1 alone the past may rue — 
What boots it, when my heart is sad, 
To know that she is wretched, too ? 

None but the meanest soul can take 
A morbid pleasure in the thought 
That, though his heart is fit to break, 
His grief, compared with some, is naught. 

I will not call the world unkind, 
Nor stop to haggle with my fate ; 
What I had wished I could not find, 
Which now, if found, would be too late. 

New friends and joys I can resign, 
Without regret, or sigh, or pain, 
Content to know what once were mine, 
Can never more be mine again. 



CAMOENS. 

He was, in sooth, a genuine bard ; 
His was no faint, fictitious flame : 
Like his, may love be thy reward, 
But not thy hapless fate the same. — Byron. 

[ The closing scene in the life of Camoens, who is fitly termed the Shake- 
speare of Portugal, was an unparalleled exhibit of ingratitude. After 
devoting his life to elevating his country's belles-lettres, he was left to die of 
penury and disease in an alms-house. Antonio, a former slave, did much to 
dissipate his sufferings, but was unable to stem the current of his master's 
adversity. J 

ANTONIO, my true and only friend, 
Slave of my youth — friend of my slow decay ; 
Wee]) not for me that this should be my end, 
But let all Lisbon hear my dying lay. 

O curse of pomp ! ingratitude of man ! 
Yet still I love thee, Lisbon, still I love ! 

natal land, where erst my muse began 
To teach me how the angels sang above. 

When I was young, and in my vernal prime, 

1 scaled the summit of Fame's jagged steep ; 
But Fortune fled me with fast - fleeting Time, 
And left a wreck upon a lampless deep. 



CAMOENS. 23 

This Fame is but a hollow, nameless thing, 
The shadow of the substance I would crave — 
A luring serpent, with a deadly sting, — 
A marble slab above a lowly grave. 

Now aged with care, and tortured by disease, 
With stooping form and tottering steps, I go 
From door to door, and bend, with servile knees 
To those who were my friends not long ago. 

The light of death is in mine eyes, I feel 

Its sable mantle spreading over me ; 

Before thy shrine, dear Lethe, now I kneel — 

O Death ! twice - welcome Death. I fly to thee ! 



WHILE THE TEAR IN THINE EYE. 

WHILE the tear in thine eye now so well is 
revealing 
The inward emotions thy tongue dare not speak ; 
Believe me, 't is useless thy passion concealing — 
Thy love is betrayed by the blush on thy cheek. 

It is vain to repress the hot tear that is starting, 
For fear that thy secret should thus be confest ; 
For the tremulous feeling evinced at our parting, 
Betrays the warm passion that throbs in thy breast. 

But grieve not, fair maiden, that I should discover 
The bud that was blooming alone in thy heart ; 
Ne'er should a sweet rose be condemned to uncover 
Its beauties to view — but to live all apart. 

Though the chain which now binds us together may 

lengthen, 
Since Fate hath decreed that I wander from thee ; 
May each link that I drag in my pilgrimage 

strengthen 
The votive affection now cherished for me. 



ANACREONTIC. 

FILL high the bowl ! Farewell to sorrow ! 
Farewell to every carking care ! 
The heart that dreads the coming morrow, 
Hath made its sorrows double here ! 

Let every cup be over - laden 
With rosy grapes' most fragrant dew ; 
We '11 pledge a toast to every maiden, 
To every maiden, false and true. 

Aye, pledge the maids who loved us kindly, 
Nor scorn the nymphs who spurned our flame, 
Nor chide ourselves for loving blindly, 
Since constancy is but a name. 

So we will drink and sing in chorus 
To those who never gave us pain — 
Those kindred souls who went before us — 
And, drinking, have them back again ! 

Then, whilst their spirits hover round us, 
We'll live our happier moments o'er, 
And bless the vines that now surround us 
With all those joys that are no more ! 



AFTER MANY YEARS. 

AND do you think, my boy, 
Now years have passed away, 
That she, in all her joy, 
Ever recalls the day 

When her young heart turned cold 
And spurned old friends for new, 
When she sold her love for gold, 
And sold her body, too ? 

And yet, as this world goes, 
She had not acted vile ; 
And, save herself, none knows 
Of the pain behind her smile. 



low 



I met her here to - night, 
But there was naught to shi 
That we, as we stood in the light, 
Had been lovers long ago. 

'T is many a year since then ! 
My friends ? Oh, where are they ? 
The boys have grown to men, 
And the men have passed away. 



AFTER MANY YEARS. 2J 

Yet, had I never ranged, 
I now might feel as you ; 
But all I knew is changed, 
And all I see is new. 

She had all she longed - for here : 
I looked into her face, 
But she did not seem so fair 
For all her jewels and lace. 

With youth's departing day 
Beauty had fled her face, 
And time had taken away 
What art could never replace. 

I heard her voice in the throng — 
And it seared my heart with nard — 
Like the long - forgotten song 
Of some once - remembered bard. 

It all came back to me then, 
Unobscured by the dust of the past, 
And she seemed the same, as when 
I looked and saw her last. 

The years had rolled away, 
The wrinkles left my brow, 
My hair no more was gray, 
As I heard her maiden vow. 



28 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

A gush of tenderness 
Athwart my breast did dart, 
As in one wild caress 
I strained her to my heart. 

And then the vision fled, 
Leaving a cureless pain, 
For my early love was dead, 
And 1 was old again. 



A SHELL. 

I SAW a blushing shell upon the shore 
And, stooping, held it to mine ear ; it gave 
A sweet and purling sound, as though it bore 
The echo of the far - receding wave. 

It was a sound I ne'er before had heard, 
Like joy and sorrow melting in one sigh ; 
It was a sound as of a lonely bird, 
So sweet, yet sad — a melancholy cry. 

I thought if it were like the syrens' choir 
That oft had led the mariner to his doom ; 
That filled his anxious heart with vain desire, 
But to betray him to a lampless tomb. 

Yet whilst I mused in meditative mind, 
No melancholy bodings could dispel 
My fervent fancies, for I learned to find 
The voice of Nature in that tiny shell. 



THE CYNIC TO HIS BOOKS. 

AS one who, young in years, yet old in grief, 
Halh lost all hope, from seeing all his aims 
And cherished yearnings perish in the flames 
Of circumstance — for which there's no relief; 
As one who, sought a friend to find a foe, 
And learnt to love to learn that love was frail, 
Hath still some years, ere death's relentless flail 
Will mark him for its own and lay him low : 
'T was thus, dear books, with heavy heart and sad, 
I turned to ye for consolation's balm, — 
Like shipwreck'd mariner, grateful for the calm 
That nursed his life when 'reft of all he had, — 
For though ye cannot ease me of the past, 
Ye still will be my friends, and faithful to the last. 



BYRON. 

UNHAPPY bard ! whose aim to raise mankind 
Above the brute - like level where they toil 
And sell their souls to treasure up such spoil 
As brings them opulence, but palls the mind ; 
By such as those thy talents are defin'd 
As ill - employed. They, viper - like, uncoil 
And sting thy noble spirit. The turmoil 
Aroused by such a horde is like the wind 
Howling against the Hand that gave it power. 
Thy heart, to which no mother's love was given, 
Immortal words left to thy fellow - men ; 
For what ? — to be despised ! In Grecian bower 
Thy hand was stilled in death, to sway in heaven, 
And guide the angel of celestial pen. 



STANZAS TO MYRA. 

FAIR girl, why should a crimson blush 
. O'erspread the whiteness of thy cheek? 
'T is vain, indeed, to strive to crush 
The secret which thy heart would speak. 

The rising zone, the downcast eye, 
The trembling lips so closely prest, 
To hide the inward tearless sigh, 
Betray the secret in thy breast. 

When love o'erflows the conscious heart 

A silent tongue can ne'er eclipse, 

Or bid its influence to depart — 

'T is in the eye, though closed the lips. 



HOW GAY ARE THE SPIRITS. 

T TOW gay are the spirits when love is just dawning 
-*- ■*- Within the recess of a maiden's warm, breast ! 
When love, like the pearly dew-drops of the morning, 
Awakes all the slumbering beauties from rest. 

Then the satyrs of love with new pleasures sur- 
round her, 

'1111 she soars in an atmosphere calm and serene ; 

They transport her to heaven, from the earth 
where they found her, 

There, to wander about in a fairy - like scene. 

But love is a passion at best evanescent, 
A feeling of pleasure that's born but to die; 
So deceiving in youth, and when life is senescent, 
It flies from our grasp, and but leaves us a sigh. 

O farewell to the joy and the balm of affection, 
Her bright dream of love has now vanished for aye; 
Foul jealousy plunged her young heart in dejection, 
And spread a black cloud o'er a glorious day ! 



SUNRISE. 

BRIGHTER grows the summer landscape, 
Lighter shades proclaim the morn ; 
Dismal night has slowly vanished — 
Soon another day will dawn. 

From their nests among the tree - tops, 
Jocund birds in plumage gay 
Send throughout the air so sweetly 
Carols to the infant day. 

In the east a radiant halo 
Hovers o'er the rising sun, 
Lighting up the hills and valleys 
As the day has just begun. 

Now old Sol is o'er the mountains, 
Lapping up the evening dew ; 
Lovely flowers from reposing 
Ope their clusters into view. 

In the farm - yard cocks are crowing 
Hearty welcomes through the air ; 
Flocks of ducklings breast the streamlets ; 
Innocence and peace are there ! 



SUNRISE. 35 



Sad and lonely would this sphere be 
If the sun did not appear, 
Like a man without a purpose — 
Full of anxious doubt and fear. 



THE SUICIDE. 

THE angry waves roll up, and seem to say 
' Come here and seek thy rest ; 
This world is but the dark night of the day 
Death bringeth the distrest.' 

I weary of this fickle world and life, 
With all its cares and pain, 
Its endless troubles and its ceaseless strife — 
To live seems all in vain. 

I toil unaided and receive no joy ; 

My heart, no longer brave, 

Succumbs to those grim bodings that destroy 

The terrors of the grave. 

'T is Lethe's stream I see before mine eyes 
Beyond the ocean wild ; 
'Twill bear me safely to that Paradise 
I dreamt of when a child. 



VOILA TOUT. 

BY the stars that were shining above her, 
She swore she would ever be true ; 
Till, though cynic, she taught him to love her 
With a love that is nurtured by few : 
And she showed him the faults he was heir to, 
As only a girl's love can show, 
Till his life was but happy when near to 
The one he once thought was his foe. 

But, oh ! how could he trust in a woman, 

Or how could her love he believe, 

When his soul told him all were but human, 

And their love but a snare to deceive ! 

For a change soon came over his being — 

A change he could never forget — 

For the love that had kept him from seeing, 

Like the sun in the heavens, had set. 

And he saw that his whole life was blighted, 
And the love of his soul was ignored ; 
For the vows that her false heart once plighted, 
Had vanished — to ne'er be restored. 



38 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

Though the rage of the tempest is over, 
And his heart to its fate is resigned, 
Every thought of the past must discover 
The vestige it never can blind. 



CHILD OF NATURE. 

A violet by a mossy stone, 
Half-hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. — Wordsworth. 

/^V CHILD of Nature ! Simple maid ! 
^^ With heart so pure, by God's behest, 
That to its depths no cares invade, 
To rob thee of a moment's rest : 
Thou art so happy in thy glee, 
How all mankind must envy thee ! 

Thou art, in sooth, a favored child, 
When linked to Virtue, side by side, 
Thou rovest through the woodlands wild 
With gay - voiced songsters for thy guide : 
So kind, so gentle, and so free, 
How all mankind must envy thee ! 

Into thy heart no Vanity 

Hath ever yet maintained its way ; 

Nor Pride, curse of humanity ! 

Hath planted its ignoble sway, 

To make thee what most women be — 

How all mankind must envy thee ! 



40 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

O Child of Nature ! Child of God ! 
Thou well deservest such a name ; 
Who e'er in Virtue's pathway trod, 
Must win an everlasting fame ; 
With such an immortality, 
How all mankind must envy thee ! 



THE FIRST SNOW. 

THE virgin flakes fell thick and fast 
Upon the barren ground ; 
The angry storm, in fretful blast, 
Then whirled them all around. 

The stately poplars in the wood 
Took color from the clouds, 
And in the gloaming silent stood 
Like dead men in their shrouds. 

The flakes hung o'er the river's breast 
In fear to take the plunge, 
Until at last they sank to rest 
Like rain - drops on a sponge. 

Upon the road a carpet white 

By ruthless winds was strewn, 

As though to hide from Heaven's sight 

Man's misery and ruin. 

O Snow ! so spotless at thy birth ! 
By gelid tempests tost, 
Till landed on this wicked earth, 
Thy purity is lost. 



ANNIE. 

SOFTLY the bell is pealing, 
Gently the waves are stealing, 
Love's lips the wind is sealing, — 
Annie is born ! 

Gayly the bell is ringing, 
Bright sprays the waves are flinging, 
Carols the wind is singing, — 
Annie is married ! 

Lowly the bell is tolling, 
Sadly the waves are rolling, 
Lonely the wind is strolling, — 
Annie is dead ! 



TO A FRIEND. 

r I ^HOU art so young, and yet so sad, 

-■- I dread to think what thou wilt be 
When Time will other sorrows add 
To flood thy brimming destiny. 

And yet, perchance, I do thee wrong, 
Whom I should strengthen and protect, 
In prophesying of the throng 
Of coming cares, thou wouldst reject. 

For why should I, with doubts and fears, 
Thus load thine overburdened breast, 
When there is comfort in our cares 
To know whatever is, is best ? 

But I, nor can I tell thee why, 
Have sometimes thought 't is best to know 
That, when we would, we can not die, 
Nor live again the long ago. 

Yet Hope, with many a cheerful ray, 
Adorns the shade of many a sorrow ; 
And when we may be blithe to - day, 
What boots it to foresee the morrow ? 



44 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

Howe'er that be, live on in hope, 

In faith and hope thy trust repose ; 

For shouldst thou strive with Fate to cope, 

Thou 'It but augment thy weighty woes. 



HOPE. 

WHEN summer skies take on a wintery hue, 
And thunder claps awake the sleepy sea, 
When liquid mountains hide our bark from view, 
We turn to thee. 

When fickle Fortune, by invidious arts, 
Hath led us onward to some victory, 
Then left us in despair : with yearning hearts 
We turn to thee. 

When Fate relentless drives our Ship of Life 
A hapless wreck upon a sunless sea, 
With sinking spirits, overcharged with strife, 
We turn to thee. 

When Death is sitting on our window - sill, 
And beckons us unto our destiny : 
Though life is fleeting fast away, still, still 
We turn to thee. 



SNOW-BOUND. 

( IN IMITATION OF WOLFE. ) 

NOT a star is seen, not a moonbeam shines, 
As on to the homestead he hurries ; 
Not a sound does he hear, save the shrouded pines 
As they groaning wave in the flurries. 

He thinks of the friends he is going to meet, 
Of the father and mother who love him ; 
And he gives not a care for the wind and the sleet, 
Nor the blinding snow above him. 

Lonely and slowly he staggers on, 
With the face of his mother before him, 
Till he sinks in his tracks, all tired and wan, 
'Neath that sleep whence no care could restore him. 

They waited and watched for the night to depart : 
In the gray of the morning they found him ; 
They thought him asleep, but that poor young heart 
Was as cold as the snow flakes around him. 



THE DEATH OF LOVE. 

WHAT means this frown, this callous look, 
This cold and haughty greeting? 
Can love like ours, that ne'er could brook 
An angry word, be fleeting ? 
Thou smilest still, but in thy smile 
No old - time love is beaming ; 
While e'en thy laugh is filled with guile — 
Can Love be dead, or dreaming ? 

It is not dead, nor doth it dream, 
But clustered close around it, 
A thousand bitter memories seem 
Closing their links to bound it ; 
Dulling the heart to former joy, 
Recalling only sorrows, 
They rouse a tempest to destroy 
The calm of future morrows. 

Hath absence made thy love grow less ? 
Hath distance made it glimmer ? 
Or hath another's soft caress 
Caused the old flame to simmer ? 



48 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

Whate'er it be, there is no love 
Like that of yore about thee — 
A love that breathed of all above, 
And made me scorn to doubt thee. 

Thine arms are round my neck again, 
' Thy lips to mine are pressing ; 
But love hath fled, and only pain 
Wells in thy false, caressing. 
Call this not love — profane it not, 
Deceit can ne'er deceive me ; 
So let it die — alone, forgot, 
But ask me not to shrive thee. 



LINES, 

SUGGESTED BY READING A VOLUME OF ANONYMOUS 
POEMS. 

r I ^HE greatest heroes have been never sung ! 

-*- The noblest deeds have unrewarded been ! 
Worth shrinks from converse with the Babel tongue, 
And blighted genius dies, unhonored and unseen. 

The vernal Mayflowers trail their length along, 
Spreading their creeping fragrance as they go ; 
Far from the casual eye, and gaping throng, 
They blush in modesty beneath the chilling snow. 

Amid the clash of arms, the battle's roar, 
Where heroes struggle for their leader's fame, 
Far in the van some stoic soul will soar, 
And pierce the hostile ranks, to die without a name. 

There is a greater glory than the praise 
The vulgar crowd bestows ; by him possessed, 
Who makes an old age of his younger days, 
Forsaking all he loves at Duty's stern behest. 



STANZAS. 

WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 

SWEET Bard ! O would my Muse but aim 
To lofty flights, its strain would rise 
To waft an anthem, in your name, 
On aerial pinions to the skies ! 

For you first taught my soul to feel 
The grandeur of the sacred Nine ; 
And led me, proselyte, to kneel 
In worship at the Muses' shrine. 

Though you are dead, your glorious name 
Grows brighter as each cycle flies ; 
While you but left your earthly frame 
To find an Auburn in the skies ! 



KISMET. 

MY guiding star was clear and bright 
When at its birth, 
But Fate eclipsed its lustrous light, 
In ruthless mirth. 

I saw it struggle in its thrall — 
My star was dead ! 
It chilled my heart, and over all 
A gloom was spread. 

Now, like a mastless hull, I float 

On Life's deep sea ; 

While Fate's simoons, with angry throat, 

Blow down on me. 



THE PHARISEE. 

METHINKS there must be something wrong 
In all his worshipping and praying, 
That it should make him ever long 
To be upon his fellows preying. 

For when he goes to church and kneels, 
A look of godly mien he 's wearing ; 
Yet when at home he seldom feels 
The gospel's truth when he is swearing. 

But then he is not what he seems ! 
A dove by day, at night a raven ; 
He damns the needy in his dreams, 
And is at heart at best a craven. 

Yet still he hopes to go to heaven, 
Though all the poor have learned to fear him ; 
Should heaven to such a wretch be given, 
No honest man could bear be near him. 



THE ROBIN. 

A ROBIN came to my window-sill, 
And tapped at the pane with his hungry bill ; 
Where he seemed, as he rapped with his wings apart, 
To keep time to the throbs of his beating heart. 

I opened the window, and said, ' Little bird, 
How comes it in winter your notes are still heard, 
While all your companions have fled to the clime 
Of the cedar and myrtle, and cypress and lime ?' 

1 Oh, why should I fly from the land of my birth, 
Though I perish of want in the wintery dearth, 
When all that is nearest and dearest to me 
Is the nest we have built in the old apple tree? 

' There, I and my mate in sweet harmony live, 
Nor complain of the seasons, whatever they give ; 
Tho' bleak blows the blast in December's chill hour, 
The sweeter, in contrast, come sunshine and flower. 

' Vain mortal, called man, take a lesson from me — 
Be content with your station, whatever it be ; 
What boot foreign glory and riches to you, 
If the scenes that you cherish have faded from view !' 



MY LADY, PLAYING. 

SHE swept the keys with aspen fingers, 
And drove the nervous strain along ; 
Still in my mind the music lingers, 
Sweet as the bard's unuttered song. 

Then changed it to an icy pealing : 
Cold as the player was the tone 
That came upon my spirit stealing, 
Until I felt I was alone ! 

Once more it changed ; so low and tender, 
Throbbing with love the music sighed. 
My arm around her waist so slender 
Irresistibly began to glide. 

On went the strain, still more beguiling, 

A ditty of the golden age ; 

Until her head she lifted, smiling, 

And said, ' Will you please turn the page ? ' 



LINES, 

FOR A LADY'S ALBUM. 

TO thee I send, 
My faithful friend, 
These unassuming verses ; 
That they may tend 
Our hearts to blend 
More close through life's reverses. 

Oh, may the day 

Be far away 

When thou and I must sever ; 

Had I my way, 

I well might say, 

I wish it would be never ! 



RONDEAU. 

FAREWELL ! and think of me, when thou 
Art happy as thou used to be, 
Ere carking Care upon thy brow 
Had set its hand. Thou wert to me 
One lifted from the vulgar crowd — 
A lily fair that floats above 
The stagnant waters of its shroud — 
But it were sin that we should love ; 
Farewell, and think of me ! 



VANITIES IN VERSE. 

A SIMILE. 

AS a dew - drop, fresh from heaven, will impart 
A new - born vigor to the withered leaf ; 
So a tear, the liquid language of the heart, 
Revives the languid bosom from its grief. 



LOVE AND JEALOUSY. 

She built a fairy boat for him, 
For sails it bore a snow-white dove ; 
She rigged it with her golden hair, 
And, siren - like, she called it Love. 

The sky was clear, the zephyrs light, 
They sailed serenely o'er the sea, 
Till a storm arose, and they were wrecked 
Upon the shoal of jealousy. 

For love is far too fair a thing 
To live without some bitter foes ; 
And jealousy to purest love, 
Is what the thorn is to the rose. 



58 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

WISHES. 

May sorrow weave a slender chain 
Around thee of her sordid strife, 
So thou mayst know enough of pain, 
To keenly feel the joys of life. 

In eastern skies there is a star, 
That brightens as its end draws near ; 
So may the joys of thy life far 
Increase with each successive year. 

TO MYRA. 

Thine eye is like a lonely star that gleams 

Apart amidst the ether of the sky ; 

An orb that sheds such iridescent beams 

Could ill reflect a melancholy sigh. 

I pray, fair girl, that to thy heart there come 

No pangs to wring thy bosom with a sigh ; 

For Care would be a Gorgon to benumb 

The lustrous light of thy seraphic eye ! 

THE LOVER'S PHILOSOPHY. 

As his heart had not known a pain 
Ere the unlucky moment he met her, 
He knew he 'd be happy again, 
As soon as he learned to forget her ! 



VANITIES IN VERSE. 59 



HOPE. 



Hope is a bubble on the tide of life. 
Which larger grows with each succeeding year ; 
When punctured by drear Fate's impending knife, 
It bursts and leaves the heart in blank despair. 

As when we woo a fickle maiden's heart, 
We learn to love it but to be deceived ; 
When Hope's delusive star we see depart, 
We sigh that it was not all we believed. 



to l . 

Poor girl, I 'm really grieved to hear 
You deem a kiss a senseless token ; 
But when you say you could not bear 
To kiss a man, I really swear 
Such nonsense should remain unspoken. 
A kiss is nice — why feign to hide it ? 
Miss Prue, I guess you 've never tried it ! 



THE POET. 

Ask him to sing of sunny skies, 
Of nymphs, of wines, of laughing eyes ; 
Ask him to paint fair eastern scenes — 
But do not ask him what he means ! 



60 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

LINES. 

Love is a little rosy - visagerl boy, 
Who lights the soul up with his subtle beam 
He holds the heart in thraldom with his joy, 
Then steals away as softly as a dream. 

But scarcely has young Cupid from us fled 
Than grim misgivings throng upon the mind, 
Like recollections of a dream long dead, 
Like idle leaves that rustle in the wind. 



TEARS. 

Oh, think not tears will cause unrest, 
Nor that they 're shed in vain ; 
The tears that wring the anxious breast 
Relieve it of its pain. 

As summer clouds, in noonday's tide, 
Obscure the welkin's sheen ; 
Will only meet, to then divide, 
And show the sun between ! 



THE CHEMIST. 

When tired of life the chemist took 
Some poison as a last resort ; 
Who, strange to say, though he was dumb, 
Was yet the best at a retort. 



SKETCHES. 



THE PLEASURES OF SOLITUDE. 

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, 
Thus unlamented let me die, 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie. — Pope. 

A DISREGARD for the pomp and vanities of 
this world is seldom cherished in an ignoble 
mind. It is the nature of man to desire to raise 
himself above the lot in which he has been cast. 
Man is selfish ; he thinks but of himself. If he 
helps his fellow, it is only unintentionally. But 
for this the laws of Nature provide. The architect 
improves the world, not for the sake of the world, 
but because he is benefited thereby. The laborer, 
in turn, is aided by the architect, not through any 
compassion for his less fortunate fellow - creature, 
but because his labor is useful to him. Thus, 
from the highest to the lowest rank in life, each 
man works for the benefit of his fellow as well as 
for himself. It is for this reason that we are 
endowed with Ambition — that insatiable longing 
after «a visionary happiness. For how little is the 
power of a monarch over his meanest subject, 
when compared with that of the Infinite Being, 



64 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

who keeps the world revolving through space, and 
directs the course of the sun, of the moon, and 
of the stars ! 

But, on account of inherent ambition, the higher 
rank a man attains in this life, the better pleased 
is he with himself ; yet, as this passion is increased 
by success, he can never be satisfied. To be sure, 
it must be admitted that some men are content 
with their lot, but they are generally the lowest 
order of the genus hom.o, devoid of the cardinal 
virtue that spurs men on to daring and noble 
deeds. In fact, they are little removed from the 
brute creation. When ambition is unusually devel- 
oped, it is called genius. A man so endowed by 
nature is conscious of his own power in a certain 
direction. His whole life is bent on the cue 
object. It robs him of the virtue of perseverance. 
He is not content with plodding on, rising step 
by step ; instead of commencing at the foot of 
Parnassus, he directs his flight towards the pinnacle. 
But his fate rests with the world ; and the opinion 
of the world is often wrong. Sometimes posterity 
corrects the judgment, but too late to repair the 
injury. George Villiers has said that there is 
nothing so dangerous as extraordinary virtues ; 
and he surely wrote from conviction. Extraordin- 
ary and unappreciated virtues were the means of 
breaking the hearts of Keats, of Chatterton, of 
Shelley, and of Burns. Byron's constitution was 
different. He combated the world's indifference — 



THE PLEASURES OF SOLITUDE. 65 

and he conquered it ; but he was never happy. 
What the world gave him, it gave with reluctance. 
He despised it as one does a cowed cur. He had 
nothing left to live for ; he grew reckless, and 
expired on the battlefield of liberty. 

As I have remarked, only noblest minds disre- 
gard the pomp and vanities of this world. The 
more a man reads, the more conversant he becomes 
with the treachery and depravity of human nature. 
Should he have personal experience to ruminate 
upon, he becomes only the more convinced. There 
can be no doubt but that the aphorism, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God," 

is as true now as when Pope wrote it nearly one 
hundred and fifty years ago ; for our great moral 
poet did not use the word honesty in its narrow 
and conventional form, but to the fullest extent of 
its meaning. A man may be upright in financial 
matters, and yet be a great scoundrel. He alone 
is an honest man whose integrity is unimpeachable, 
and who has never sacrificed his principles to 
interest. 

Taking it for granted, that no man is satisfied 
with his own condition, but, on account of an 
innate passion of ambition, is ever striving to 
promote himself ; we can readily see that the more 
unprincipled a man is, the greater advantage he 
will take of his fellow. In this world, therefore, 
the honest man is much at the mercy of the rogue. 
To be sure, he has the law to protect him ; but 



66 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

the rogue can employ many species of chicanery 
not amenable to law. The monopolist, the pharisee, 
and the usurer, prey upon their fellows with 
impunity. In the eyes of the law, he who takes 
a shilling out of your pocket is a greater scoundrel 
than the bankrupt who robs you of your all. 
The law affords no protection to the poor man 
against the monopolist, who gorges on the heart's 
blood of the nation. Therefore, he who treads in 
the upright path of life, ever scorning to sacrifice 
his principles to interest, has only his conscience 
to support him when he falls by the wayside. A 
man in this situation naturally retires into solitude ; 
for the pleasures of an easy conscience are purely 
contemplative. Instinct prompts him to flee the 
haunts of man, as he who escapes scathless from 
a conflagration is possessed of but one thought, 
and that is, to retire from the power ol the flames. 
A man may lead a life of solitude, and yet not 
be a misanthrope. Byron, who has been accused 
of every crime which could be invented by the 
bigotry and the malignity of those who could never 
hope to " awake one morning and find themselves 
famous," has, of course, not escaped the charge 
of hating his fellow, even though he has repeatedly 
professed that, 

" To fly from, need not mean to hate, mankind." 

Besides, how much misanthropy was there in Byron's 
sacrificing his life and fortune in the cause of a 
down - trodden race ? 



THE PLEASURES OF SOLITUDE. 67 

A man may have many reasons for seeking 
solitude. If he be possessed of talent, the bitter 
pangs of unrewarded merit ; if he has endeavored 
to advance himself in the commercial world, the 
treachery of mankind ; if he has been indulgent 
to his friends, the rankling thoughts of misplaced 
confidence ; if he has loved, the inconstancy of 
woman ; if he has sinned, the hope of expiating 
his fault. 

Perhaps there is more enjoyment than pleasure 
in a sedentary life. Pleasure is a word of manifold 
interpretations, and refers more to the senses than 
to the heart. A man who seeks solitude to forget 
an injury, or to atone for a crime, wishes comfort 
rather than enjoyment — happiness rather than 
pleasure. Whatever delight he receives, is derived 
from his surroundings. The blue sky, the waving 
trees, the purling brooks, the variegated flowers, 
all these possess a more than usual charm for 
him, by being associated only with pleasing ideas. 
The contrast between them and his former habi- 
tation is too marked to recall the unpleasant phases 
in his life. In the place of friends, he has books, 
those " silent companions of the lonely hour," of 
which Lord Bacon says : " Do but look upon 
good books ; they are true friends, that will neither 
flatter nor dissemble." The loneliness of a life of 
solitude is much dissipated by a predilection for 
polite learning. A man with such a bent wishes 
no other friend than a book ; and being [removed 



68 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

from the objects of his past unhappiness, he will 
lead a life of contentment, if not of pleasure. 
Under the circumstances, he could expect no more. 
The pleasures of solitude have only a negative 
quality ; they afford rest rather than enjoyment. 
Man is a social being ; and the wilderness is the 
home of the savage, and of the beast. The ere- 
mite retires from the haunts of man to flee the 
cruelties of the world. He no longer seeks enjoy- 
ment, but his desire is a rational one — it is rest. 



ETHEL, 

TN the western part of England, during the 
-■- mediaeval ages, Castle Elderclaire reared its 
frowning height in all its gloomy, stolid, yet grand 
beauty. Situated on the brow of a gently -sloping 
hill, it resembled some grim monument of awe 
keeping silent vigils over the far - retreating plain 
at its base. The turret walls commanded a mag- 
nificent view of the environs. In the immediate 
vicinity the monotony of the verdant plain was 
broken by the interspersing of numerous picturesque 
groves. Embowered in trees of marked beauty, 
with the musical purl of many merry brooks, their 
prodigal splendor caused the mind to revert to 
those elysian bowers which Boccaccio so loved to 
paint. A thickly - wooded forest stretched in the 
distance for miles and miles. Sombre and tire- 
some though the woodland were, when viewed 
from afar the eye was enchanted at not unfrequent 
intervals by glimpses of sundry grassy hills and 
an occasional plateau. 

The owner of the castle, Baron Bertrams, a 
man of a savage and morose disposition, was 



70 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

somewhat past the meridian of life. His ancestors, 
who had come over to England with the invading 
Normans in the eleventh century, had ousted the 
rightful occupants of the castle from their possess- 
ions, and substituted themselves. Though time 
had erased the vestiges of his ancestral usurpation, 
the lust for wealth was still inherent in the present 
baron. Like all those who have risen to opulence 
from the depths of penury, he was overbearing to 
those beneath him. So much did he give a loose 
to the exercise of his authority, that he was secretly 
hated and despised, despite the respectful obeisance 
to his wishes, which his position commanded. 

The only female occupant of the castle, apart 
from the menials, was Ethel, the niece and ward 
of Baron Bertraine. She was a most beautiful 
maiden, in the heyday of her vernal charms. Her 
pleading, melting, and expressive blue eyes ; her 
wealth of golden hair, which fell in nondescript 
wavy curls down her gently - arching shoulders, 
coupled with her symmetrical form, bespoke her 
Saxon pedigree. Her outward charms were only 
surpassed by the indigenous purity and innocence 
of her nature. As she wandered about the gloomy 
confines of the castle, where all the surroundings 
were so alien to her disposition, the contrast was 
so marked that she seemed some angel strayed 
from heaven — a gay but fettered gazelle. A nature 
like hers was more fitted for a nomadic life among 
the ever - changing beauties of nature, than to be 



ETHEL. 71 

pent - up in a dingy* warlike castle, under the 
thraldom of an avaricious guardian. But Ethel 
was of too noble a disposition to ever complain 
of her lot. She even loved her uncle ; but with 
that love which is engendered more by instinct 
than as a reward for kindness. 

So docile had Ethel always been that but little 
restraint was placed upon her movements. She 
was permitted to stray among the neighboring 
groves, and even to penetrate the leafy depths of 
the forest, at pleasure. It was these ramblings 
that kept the roses in her cheeks, and prevented 
her nature from taking on a gloominess in keeping 
with the castle. 

During one of her pastoral excursions, Ethel's 
pensive solitude was broken into by the appearance 
of a young forester, named Egbert. Ethel, who 
had never known the pleasure of associating with 
those of her own age, felt herself irresistibly drawn 
towards the sprightly young nomad. The spark 
of friendship then conceived, by subsequent ren- 
counters, was nourished into a tender and enduring 
love, before the maiden was even aware of the 
existence of such a passion. Love generally comes 
to us first unperceived, or prompted by instinct ; 
but we leave it to die, only feeling to desire it 
when our hearts have grown callous. If all men 
but followed instinct, and wedded their first loves, 
might not marriage be generally more happy ? 
From that day Ethel's loiterings became more 



72 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

frequent and prolonged, until at last they attracted 
the attention of her uncle. 

One afternoon the young lovers were strolling 
through a shady grove, experiencing all the trans- 
ports peculiar to first love, when a shadow darkened 
their path. Ethel raised her eyes in surprise 
toward the unexpected intruder, and encountered 
the cruel visage of her uncle, whose face was 
distorted by the throes of unpitying rage. The cry 
of wild despair that issued from the inmost depths 
of Ethel's heart, froze on her lips, and she lost con- 
sciousness. Egbert was in the act of tendering her 
assistance when a blow from a halberd, wielded by 
the infuriated baron, laid him low. Without deign- 
ing to cast one look upon the object of his anger, 
Bertraine raised the inanimate form of his niece 
from the ground, and with hasty steps hurried in 
the direction of the castle. Arriving there, he 
placed the maid in a chamber in the turret, and 
carefully secured the door. 

When Ethel recovered consciousness, the sun 
was streaming through the window of her prison. 
Several moments elapsed before she could collect 
the scattered fragments of her thoughts ; but when 
the utter wretchedness of her condition dawned 
upon her in all its vividness, she gave vent to a flood 
of wild, passionate tears. There is something so 
pure, so intense in first love, that even when it is 
allowed to perish of its own accord, the tender 
recollections of our early passion will continue to 



ETHEL. 73 

haunt us in our after-life. But when the affection 
is rudely ruptured — when all hopes of amelioration 
have vanished — what a feeling of hopeless despair 
and utter loneliness takes possession of the soul ! 
All former pleasures are lost sight of in the one 
absorbing sorrow ; for when wan grief is gnawing 
at the heart, any retrogression to past joys but adds 
to the intensity of the present pangs. 

Although separated, Ethel was not deserted by 
her lover. Young Egbert, after many assiduous 
manoeuvres, discovered the place of her captivity, 
and aided by the ivy - clad walls of the castle, suc- 
ceeded in gaining the casement under cover of the 
night. Joyous though all their meetings had been, 
these clandestine interviews were rendered doubly 
so after their recent separation, for the heart must 
be acquainted with sorrow before it can know a 
transport. 

Ethel's troubles seemed to have but commenced. 
One day her uncle entered her chamber, and in a 
stern tone bade her be prepared for a marriage 
ceremony, as her nuptials were to be celebrated on 
the morrow. Her intended husband was a certain 
Lord Leofric, a man old enough to be her father, 
who had spent his youth in profligacy and was now 
a confirmed caitiff and roue. He had amassed vast 
riches by gaming, and this covered his manifold 
vices in the eyes of Baron Bertraine, who was easily 
induced to barter his niece for a large portion of 
Leofric's pelf. Grieve not, reader, at the severity 



74 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

of Ethel's fate ; nor congratulate yourself that you 
do not live in those barbarous ages. The same 
things are occurring in your midst every day. It 
has come down to us from generation to generation, 
and will continue to exist until the world has run 
its course, — 

" For honored well are charms to sell 
If priests the selling do ! " 

When Egbert scaled the battlement that evening, 
Ethel welcomed him with swollen and tear - stained 
eyes ; and with many convulsive sobs recited the 
story of the fate that encompassed her. The out- 
burst of boundless rage subsided in the breast of 
the young forester, and was succeeded by a period 
of pensive meditation. The reverie over, he arose, 
and, approaching the couch, soon improvised a rope 
from the shreded tapestry. Securely fastening one 
end to the buttress, he allowed it to fall in spiral 
coils to the ground. Then assuring the maid of a 
speedv deliverance, he suspended his weight on the 
frail, swaying support, intending to stay its momen- 
tum so that Ethel could alight in safety. His head 
had scarcely disappeared from view, when the door 
was dashed open and the baron entered. The 
trembling maid and the debris of the rent fabrics 
betrayed all. The wandering eye of Bertraine 
espied the rope, and with an exultant cry he drew 
his sword from its scabbard. One stroke, and the 
frail support was gashed asunder in an instant. A 
pitiful wail broke the stillness of the night air, 



ETHEL. 75 

followed by snapping sounds of less rotundity, as 
the treacherous ivy parted in the death - clutch of 
the doomed youth ; then a fearful thud as the body 
landed on the stones of the court - yard. 

The morning dawned gloomy. A heavy mist 
veiled the glorious orb of the sun, as though to keep 
its rays from smiling on a scene of so much misery. 
A feeling of sadness pervaded even to the groves, 
and the birds seemed to have hushed their songs. 
The preparations for the coming nuptials were soon 
completed. The baron moved about with elastic 
steps, rubbing his attenuated hands at the prospect 
of the lee he would shortly receive as the reward 
of his villainy. He felt no pangs of remorse for 
the atrocious crime he had committed the night 
before, and his niece's sorry plight was farthest from 
his thoughts. As soon as Lord Leofric arrived, he 
was handed the keys of the turret rooms. With a 
sardonic smile overspreading his sinister counten- 
ance, he hied to Ethel's chamber. He found the 
young maid silently stretched on her couch, looking 
more lovely than ever. He called her name, but 
she answered not ; he shook her, but she remained 
unmoved. With a cry of impatience, he raised her 
in his arms ; the body was his, but Ethel was 
beyond his power. She — she had gone home. 



THE BORE. 

He opens everything he sees — 
Except the entry door ! — Saxe. 

WE all know him ! But I love a bore. 
Especially one of those good - natured, 
idle - loving bores, over whose cheerfulness the ills 
of life glide away as water down the back of a duck. 
He has such an ingenuous knack of wriggling him- 
self into our good graces and confidence by his 
insinuating suavity and studied sympathy. He is 
a person of sympathetic impertinences, with a heart 
most elastic and tractable. He can conjure up a 
tear or a smile at will — just as the occasion calls 
for. And there lies his great success : for who ever 
heard of a bore who was not a great flatterer ? But 
he is not a conventional flatterer by any means. In 
fact, it takes years of study to become a perfect bore. 
Like the poet, he must understand fully all the 
foibles and follies of human nature, and the various 
passions of the heart. Nor does his task end there. 
It does not suffice for him to be conversant with 
their causes and results, but he must have a balm 
for every woe — a stimulant for every joy — and a 
goad for every hale. 



THE BORE. 77 

He seldom meddles with the fair sex ; for with 
them his talents, be they never so great, are always 
at a discount. He has vanity enough, to be sure ; 
but he is not so vain as to believe that he could 
succeed where all others have failed. Nor can we 
blame him for the almost religious awe with which 
he regards all matters pertaining to womankind in 
general. His scruples are too much colored with 
discretion and common sense to be misconstrued 
into a lack of courage. No reasonable man could 
expect the bore to be familiar with a woman's heart, 
when even she does not understand it herself ! 
Yet, in many respects, the bore could exercise his 
talents upon the fair with great success. His chief 
stock in trade being flattery, he has the immediate 
key to her heart. And then he is unsurpassed on 
the "pious lay." This is also a wonderful advan- 
tage to him, for there is nothing more pleasing to a 
woman, — when she has not anything more interesting 
to talk about, — unless it be scandal. In the latter, 
the bore is as to the manner born. His whole consti- 
tution is like a sponge, which absorbs all the choice 
tid - bits of human depravity and matrimonial 
infelicity. Not only are his absorbing powers 
wonderful, but his fecundity is so enormous, that 
what he receives by retail assumes wholesale pro- 
portions by passing through him. Nor is he at all 
diffident in dispensing his scandal. The sponge will 
divulge its contents upon the slightest pressure. He 
would not wait for it to be scpieezed at all, did he 



78 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

not realize that he became enhanced in the eyes of 
a woman by exciting her curiosity. 

With all these qualifications, the reader may think 
it strange that the bore steers clear of women. But 
the fact is, that he is very sensitive upon some mat- 
ters. It cuts him to the heart to discover that he is 
becoming superannuated, and that his position is 
being usurped by a more fortunate rival. He seems 
?o forgetjhat all the fickleness, the hankering after 
novelty, was cut out of Adam when Eve was formed. 
He would sooner encounter an irascible man, armed 
with a club and flanked by a bulldog, than face that 
searing scorn and those tacit innuendoes so peculiar 
to the fair : those traits which their admirers are 
charitable enough to attribute to a certain gentleness 
and delicacy of feeling, which they tell us every 
female possesses ; but which cynics stigmatize as 
deceit and a lack of the necessary courage to plainly 
speak their thoughts. 

This is the whole secret of the bore's seeming 
bashfulness. Although he is entirely compounded 
of deceit and sycophancy, he despises similar traits 
in another. Indeed, he shrinks from a bout with an 
antagonist who meets him with his own weapons 
And this is the reason why it is usually the younger 
bore who plies his talents on the fair. For after his 
first sallies have been repulsed, he seldom has suf- 
ficient courage to persevere. All his spirit seems to 
have 'evaporated in the unequal contest — for his 
fair opponent stoops to artifices even too delicate 



THE BORE. 79 

for his unscrupulous conscience. When she wishes 
to dismiss him, she makes no emphatic commands ; 
neither does she go to any extremes. On the con- 
trary, her frowns gradually become more frequent, 
while her smiles "grow small by degrees and beau- 
tifully less." He notices, when he calls, that she 
has become more subject to indisposition than 
formerly ; she is frequently " engaged " ; and then 
often "not at home." At first this surprises the 
bore, for he never thinks his society could have 
grown tiresome. But when he hears her tell the 
servant - girl to inform him that she has gone into 
the country for a month, he begins to moralize over 
the cold - blooded deceit practiced by the fair. 

When, at rare intervals, he obtains an audience, 
his embarrassment is only increased. He wonders 
what has made her so reserved. Where formerly 
she had stretched out her delicate ungloved hand, 
she now welcomes him with a most cold and haughty 
inclination of the head. The cosy arm-chair, which 
seemed to have just moulded itself to his form, has 
been removed to some other apartment. This may 
have been occasioned either by accident or necessity 
— yet, it is very suggestive. Then he perceives that 
she has become dreamy, lapsing into various stages 
of ennui. She no longer smiles at his sallies of wit, 
and his dainty bits of scandal are received as twice- 
told tales. She suddenly remembers that she has a 
little brother. He must be so lonesome in the 
nursery ; she will bring him in to help entertain her 



So STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

company. Little Johnny is too old to be interesting, 
yet young enough to be mischievous. At first he is 
very shy, contenting himself with investigating Mr. 
Leech at a distance — with a putty - blower. Then 
his diffidence gradually wears off. He greets the 
visitor as " Mamie's beau," and other pet names ; 
places bent pins on his chair ; plays horsey on his 
walking- cane — and breaks it; throws the kitten 
on his back ; draws a bead on his silk hat — and 
hits it three out of five; clambers up in his lap, and 
pulls his whiskers. At last the little fiend is sent to 
bed. Mr. Leech breathes freer, and hopes to have 
a pleasant time the rest of the evening. He glances 
up at the clock, and discovers it is time he were 
leaving. He is sure some one must have put the 
hands on at least an hour — but he does not like to 
say so. As the forlorn hope, he produces a paper 
of caramels. This had never yet failed to put 
Mamie in a good humor. But Miss Miggs suddenly 
becomes aware that she has a most distressing tooth- 
ache. She accepts them, however, and will give 
them to Johnny in the morning — but he never gets 
more than one! At last Mr. Leech prepares to 
depart. The servant is summoned to conduct him 
to the door. This is the unkindest cut of all. For 
he well remembers how kind Mamie was only a few- 
weeks before. How she helped him on with his 
overcoat and accompanied him to the door, where 
she kept him talking so long in the hall. How 
closely she nestled up to him when he shook her by 



THE BORE. c3I 

the hand, and smiled so lovingly that he could not 
resist kissing her. These reflections only augment 
his sorrows. He regrets ever having left his quondam 
friends of the sterner sex, and resolves to cultivate 
their acquaintance as of yore. Their society may 
not be so pleasant, but it is more economical ; 
besides, he feels more at home among them. 

He again knocks at your door with the same 
autocratic insolence, grasps you by the hand, and 
hopes that you are well. He comes early and he 
stays late. His prolonged absence has not robbed 
him of any of his complacent imbecility, nor taught 
him to take a hint that was not to his advantage. 
He drops into your . easy - chair with the verdant 
familiarity of an old friend, and makes no excuse 
for staying so long away. His sensibility is so acute 
that it would seem to him like adding insult to 
injury to do so. He likes you to ask him where he 
has been, for it makes him believe you had missed 
his diurnal face. He answers you with a shrug of 
the shoulders and a smile of mysterious import, 
while he seems to say, " Now, wouldn't you like to 
know !" as he gives you a sly dig in the ribs. 

The complexion of the bore is purely cosmopol- 
itan ; he can make himself at home everywhere — 
but becomes too familiar by far. He takes up your 
pipe, smells it aesthetically, glances around the room 
as if in search of something that is not there, and 
casually remarks that Honeywood always keeps an 
open box of cigars for his friends. Whenever the 



82 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

Havannas are not forthcoming, he remembers that 
he enjoys a pipe wonderfully at times. In fact, the 
bore is most malleable to the emergencies of cir- 
cumstance, and his wonderful knack of assimilating 
himself to his surroundings makes the welcome of 
even his meanest tarrying - place the high - water 
mark of his expectations. 

The literary bore is more bore than any of the 
other bores — the very allegory of boredom. He is 
an organic lie; " a mute, inglorious Milton"; a 
pyramid of platitudes ; as prolix as Wordsworth ; a 
disciple of Sam Patch. Hour after hour he will 
read you one of his little poems of "linked sweet- 
ness long drawn out" ; and though his breath may 
fail him, his rhymes never do. He has a great 
passion for alliteration, and tells you it comes natural 
to him. Tennyson, he adds, carries it to the 
extreme, and ruins his poetry by making it labored. 
Then he will quote you a line to show his great skill 
in the art — 

The huntsman hitched on his high hunting horn, 

defying any Englishman to pronounce it. He sneers 
at the old poets, and speaks patronizingly of the new. 
He thinks that whatever is not prose must be poetry, 
and says Walt Whitman's is neither. When he 
attempts wit, he becomes particularly silly ; and 
shows the shallowness of his perception by remark- 
ing, with a laugh, that Swinburne's poetry is soon 
to be translated into English. 

But poetry is only one of his qualifications ; he 



THE BORE. CS3 

must have something not so well known to discourse 
upon when he moves about in society. He mem- 
orizes the names of all the prehistoric monstrosities 
of earth, sea, and sky; reads up the political 
economy of Shanghai, — the banquet oration of the 
Anthropophagi, — the religion of the Devil-worship- 
pers, — and Berkeley's Treatise on the Nature of the 
Material Substance, and its Relation to the Absolute. 
Thus equipped, he sallies forth to conquer — or 
to keep on talking. He generally succeeds in the 
former, for he is never afraid of making a mistake, 
as nobody — not even himself — knows what he is 
talking about. His tongue becomes the nearest 
approximate to perpetual motion. There is no get- 
ting rid of him. He is not content that his hearer 
has a due appreciation of his talents, and never 
offers to contradict him, but he still "keeps dinging 
it, dinging it into one so." 



SETH. 

I HAVE met many strange and eccentric individ- 
uals — some naturally so, others whose peculiar 
traits were developed by force of circumstances — 
hut the oddest and the most curious of all was Seth 
Madden. Often have I endeavored to account for 
his chief characteristics by the trite rules set down 
tor governing human nature, and just so often have 
I failed. There was something so uncommon, so 
unique, about him ; so many irreconcilable traits, 
that the acutest psychologist would have been at a 
loss for means to assimilate them in one human 
being. He had enough individuality to make a 
dozen ordinary men conspicuous in the circle of 
their acquaintances. 

Physically speaking, he was almost perfect, 'rail, 
well - built, and broad - shouldered. Perhaps he 
should have been a trifle stouter for his height ; just 
enough to fully curve the angles of his frame with- 
out approaching corpulency. But the vigorous 
training he had prescribed for himself, from his 
youth, had so coaxed the growth of muscle, that it 
left him without an ounce of superfluous flesh. Plis 



SETH. 85 

eyes, the most expressive of his features, contained 
a depth of meaning which I have never seen equalled. 
Sometimes those large steel - grey, scrutinizing orbs 
glowed with kind, sympathetic love; and then again 
they glistened with an almost cruel ferocity. His 
nature, generally so strong as to seem almost super- 
human, was yet so tractable that occasionally it 
weakened until it became as soft as a woman's. I 
have seen him moved to tears at the loss^of a dear 
friend : tears that welled " from the depths of some 
divine despair." There was something touching in 
the tears of that strong man ; so unlike those of a 
woman. There is a certain hypocrisy in a woman's 
weeping which dulls the heart to the influence of 
her tears. It is so difficult to tell what prompts 
them. Some women weep from instinct, from habit, 
from impulse, or from envy. They could not be 
happy unless they did so at regular periods. Their 
tears are idle and have little meaning when compared 
with those of a man. It may be weakness for a man 
to cry, but it is a laudable one. He does so when 
he feels the most ; a woman, when she feels the least. 
At school, Seth was remarkable for his indomitable 
spirit, impulsive nature, and generous disposition. 
He was the pride of his comrades ; a shining mark 
at which they gazed with admiration. Probably his 
abnormal strength was the cause of much of the 
reverence and awe in which his companions held him. 
But he was not a bully. There was no bully in that 
school after he came! Outdoor sports were more 



86 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

congenial to his nature than poring over books. 
Many times, years afterwards, I thought that it would 
have been better for him had he devoted himself 
more to study. He had many of the instincts that 
make the scholar : his taste was so refined, and his 
conception of the Beautiful, both in Art and Nature, 
so true. He would stroll for hours through the 
woods, stopping frequently to gaze at some little 
beauty in nature which the other boys passed by 
unnoticed. A tiny wild - flower, a bunch of varie- 
gated autumn leaves, an odd scrap of moss, and 
many other little things, afforded him an indescrib- 
able pleasure. He was this way to the end, but 
remained too much absorbed in himself to turn the 
bent of his genius up the steep path of fame. 

What I most admired in Seth was his true religious 
feeling. His was the religion of humanity ; not 
that sanctimonious hypocrisy which we almost in- 
variably find in church - worshippers, and which is 
merely a veneering of devoutness over an uncharitable 
interior, polished with a varnish of seeming godliness. 
Many would have called him an infidel. Perhaps 
he was, if good actions, and not pretentious piety, 
make the unbeliever. Be that as it may, he did 
many little acts of charity of which a strict follower 
of the orthodox would never have thought. 

One incident I well remember, because it was so 
characteristic of Seth. We were walking together, 
when a little girl approached with a pitcher in her 
hand. She was within a few feet of us when a large 



SETH. 87 

savage mastiff sprang at her throat. The woollen 
comforter around her neck saved her from any 
serious injury, but she was paralyzed with fear. In 
a moment Seth had placed his burly form in front 
of the child, and just in lime to shield her from a 
second attack. With gaping jaws the brute prepared 
himself for another spring. I shuddered, while a 
film came over my eyes ; but it was only a transitory 
weakness. When I recovered myself, I saw Seth's 
fingers clinched around the dog's throat. By main 
strength he held it at arm's- length until the brute 
was choked, and then dashed it to the ground. 
The child was crying piteously ; perhaps she was 
more frightened about the broken pitcher than her- 
self. Seth must have thought of that, for he gave 
her a piece of money, the sight of which dried her 
tears. I asked Seth if he were hurt. He merely 
held up his hand ; the thumb was terribly torn. 
Almost mechanically I followed him into a saloon. 
He ordered some brandy, filled the tumbler, and 
with the utmost coolness placed the lacerated mem- 
ber in it. I looked into his face ; every particle of 
blood had forsaken his countenance ; great beads 
of perspiration stood out upon his forehead ; but 
not as much as a muscle moved. Since then I have 
thought how terrible the torture must have been. 
But then it was Seth ! 

When Seth was in his twenty - third year he 
formed an attachment for Gertrude Hargraves, a 
girl who changed the whole current of his after-life. 



88 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

I, who always thought that there was no woman 
worthy of his noble heart, could never approve of 
their engagement. Gertrude was too haughty and 
selfish, too proud and supercilious, to make a man 
like Seth happy. Nor was I alone in my scruples ; 
but no one dared utter them in his presence. I can 
well imagine with what force the arm of that Titan 
would have descended upon the unlucky head, for 
his love for Gertrude was so wild that it brooked no 
control. But the climax came sooner than I had 
expected. She, who had been accustomed to being 
worshipped by a bevy of admirers, was too capricious 
and deceitful to remain constant for any length of 
time. She soon tired of Seth, and cast off his love 
with as much compunction as she would feel in 
discarding a worn - out article of her apparel. 

Shortly after this, Seth vanished from my sight 
but not out of my memory. No one knew what had 
become of him, until one day, two years later, I met 
him on the street. He greeted me in his same old 
quiet, unassuming manner, as though our separation 
had only been one of hours instead of years. I saw 
he did not want me to question him of the past, and 
as I knew him too well to thwart his will, I never 
learned what had happened to him in that time. 
But he was a changed man. All the sunny phases 
of his nature had faded, and in their stead was a 
melancholy moroseness. His face told but too 
plainly of the wild dissipation of the last two years ; 
but he still possessed the same noble demeanor, and 



SETH. 89 

the poise of his head retained most of its former 
proud carriage. That iron constitution was not 
easily broken down. I noticed a long deep scar 
extending nearly from temple to temple. It was 
not there when he went away. I often shuddered 
as I wondered at the tragic circumstances with 
which it must have been linked ; but he never 
ventured to tell me how it was received. 

A short time after, Seth and I were returning from 
a theatre, when a fire-engine dashed wildly past us. 
Seth's ever-unappeased longing for excitement drew 
him, almost irresistibly, toward the conflagration. 
As we neared the scene of the fire a feeling of un- 
easiness came over me, which was greatly increased 
when I perceived that the flames issued from the 
house of the Hargraves. I cannot say whether Seth 
knew of it then, — I hardly think he did, — for he 
remained calm and quiet on the outskirts of the 
crowd. 

Suddenly the lamentations of a woman sounded 
above the shrill cries of the firemen, the hoarse 
snorts of the engine, and the fear - hushed murmurs 
of the spectators. How Seth ploughed his way 
through the crowd ! He faced the sorrowing 
woman — it was Gertrude. She must have recog- 
nized him instantly, for she stilled her cries, and an 
expression of pleading hopelessness overspread her 
face. I do not think she uttered a word as she 
pointed to a window in one of the upper rooms. 
My eyes followed the movement, and I saw her pet 



9° 



STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 



dog crouching in fear upon the sill. The poor little 
creature was moaning and whining piteously ; fear- 
ing to retreat and afraid to leap. 

Impulsively Seth moved in the direction of the 
burning house. He turned once and raised his arm 
with a reassuring movement, as calmly as Hiawatha, 
when he 

" Slowly waved his hand at parting." 

The suspense was agonizing. It seemed to me almost 
an age before the old familiar form appeared at the 
window. The plaudits of the multitude below were 
unnoticed by him. Not until the little dog had 
been lowered in safety to the ground, did he raise 
his eyes. Their gaze centred on Gertrude, and I 
saw her kiss the tips of her fingers to him. She was 
happy then, and no longer wept. For an instant 
the old-time look of kindness beamed in his eyes, 
but only to be replaced by a smile of exulting scorn- 
fulness. His lips opened to speak, but she never 
heard his half-formed words. The floor on which 
he was standing collapsed with an awful crash, and 
that grand and noble soul was precipitated into the 
blazing chasm. 

I have never recovered from that terrible shock. 
It may have been a foolhardy daring. But then it 
was so like Seth ! 



CHRISTMAS AFTERTHOUGHTS. 

CHRISTMAS ! How the heart of man expands 
to the sound of that word. What tender 
recollections are closely clustered and linked to that 
annual turnstile in each one's life. The child, to 
whom the world is a continual panorama of happiness 
and joy, awaits with expectant surprise the disgorging 
of the plethoric stocking, in vivid contrast to the old 
man, who, with a staid expression of gratitude and 
contentment on his countenance, contemplates the 
removal of another link from the chain which sep- 
arates him from his Father and his God. How 
different is the delight they experience ! We are 
told that those who never knew a pang can never 
know a transport ; that sorrow is given us merely to 
augment our happiness by forming a contrast. 
There may be some truth in that, inasmuch as the 
continual recurrence of pleasure, year after year, 
causing the spirits to run in one unchanging groove, 
would, undoubtedly, grow monotonous, and dull the 
keen edge of true happiness. But do not the sorrows 
and the cares of this world possess a striking affinity 
to this Utopian happiness ? The child, who is an 



Q2 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

utter stranger to the fretful troubles of this world, 
revels in the Christmas cheer with a zeal and a gusto 
altogether alien to him whose life has been one 
vicissitude of care. To the former, all is untram- 
melled pleasure ; to the latter, be his present 
happiness never so great, it is alloyed with the recol- 
lections of unpleasant phases. There is more native 
simplicity about the child's happiness ; he gives a 
loose to all his spirits, without a solitary thought of 
the past or of the future. It is better so. Childhood 
is only an atom of space in the fleeting span of life. 
But it is the happiest. 

In this season of " Peace on earth, good will to 
man," when happiness is running rampant, how- 
pent up are the springs of Charity ! What base 
ingratitude and selfishness are evinced, and how 
much more noticeable they become at this period. 
Man has ever been prone to egoism — insular, un- 
sympathetic and mindful only of himself and kin. 
In the progress of Civilization, Philanthropy has 
been relegated to Oblivion with the relics of by-gone 
ages. Is the happiness of the wealthy marred at 
this time by the thought of all the poverty and 
wretchedness of the unfortunate poor ? Can they 
be happy when so many of their fellow - beings are 
distressed ? Yes ; their egoism prevents them from 
thinking of others. The limit of their happiness is 
so contracted that it is bounded by themselves and 
immediate friends. Those removed from their nar- 
row circle strike no responsive chord in their bosoms. 



CHRISTMAS AFTERTHOUGHTS. 93 

Let us turn from the scenes of festivity and 
enjoyment ; let us flee the cheerful haunts of opu- 
lence and comfort, and let us view a few of the 
multifarious beings who throng our great thorough- 
fares. It is Christmas eve. The snow, which has 
been falling all day, has turned to a thick, drizzly 
mist. The wayfarer shudders as he glides on, 
scarcely taking a casual peep in at the brilliantly 
lighted store-windows, arrayed with articles to catch 
the eye and strike the heart. The icy rain pierces 
his clothing, while the slush oozes through his boots, 
sending a counter-current that chills him to the very 
soul, steeling his heart to the supplications of the 
needy, and hurrying him on to his bright and happy 
fireside. 

I am standing in the vestibule of one of our large 
theatres. The electric lights, which brilliantly illu- 
mine the street, cast a ghost-like reflection on the 
faces of the motley crowd who crouch around the 
door. Unable to command the price of admission, 
they still linger within sound of the pleasure which 
is denied them ; resembling the lonely dog, which 
sat before a mirror trying to scrape an acquaintance 
with himself. How their countenances, hungry for 
enjoyment, become animated, and how their eyes 
are all drawn in the one direction each time the 
door opens., as if they expected an invitation to enter. 

While my eyes wander among the crowd of 
wretched beings, the focus of my sight becomes con- 
centrated, till it singles out one from their midst. 



94 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

It is a little girl, seemingly about nine years of age. 
The rags, which serve for clothing, scarcely cover, 
much less protect her from the elements. The little 
basket of flowers she carries in her hand tends only 
to mark the contrast. I look into her face. What 
a frightful tale of woe and degradation is depicted 
in the pinched and hungry features, the sunken 
eyes, the hollow cheeks, and the thin and bloodless 
lips ! That face was a picture of ruin, more vivid 
and more pathetic than any pen could paint. It 
spoke in the voice of a living pencil, leaving its 
words indelibly engraven on the heart. Visions of 
her once happy home thronged in my mind. The 
father is a confidential clerk, honored and respected. 
A false' friend induces him to enter a gambling-den, 
where his little store of hard-earned savings is 
quickly squandered. The demon of gaming takes 
possession of his soul, and he borrows some of his 
employer's money. He does not intend to steal it 
— he could not think of that ; but takes it only as 
a loan, which he will return when luck changes. 
His continued losses plunge him deeper and deeper 
into excesses, until the relentless arm of Ruin 
crushes down, while the hand of Justice is placed 
on his shoulder, and the finger of Scorn is pointed 
not on him alone, but on those whom he holds most 

dear When he regains his liberty, he seeks in 

vain for employment. At every effort he makes to 
rise, a dozen vulturine hands are ready to beat him 
down. He is damned by the clergy, reviled by men, 



CHRISTMAS AFTERTHOUGHTS. 95 

scorned by women, and ridiculed by children. God 
seems then too far removed from him to render any 
aid and comfort. At last he seeks oblivion in dissi- 
pation, and perishes in a drunken brawl, without a 
friend to close his dying eyes. The mother — for- 
getful of herself and child, crazed by despair, taunted 
by reproach — becomes a drunkard. She sinks to the 
lowest depths, until she reminds one of Hogarth's 
figure on the steps of Gin Lane. The little waif 
before me, once the innocent pledge of two loving 
hearts, is forced upon the streets to earn the pittance 
that prolongs her mother's shame. 

A figure looms up between me and the object of 
my meditation. I can no longer see the little basket, 
but a pathetic " Bouquets ! " is wafted to me on the 
still night air. I perceive another female before me. 
But she is older, both in sin and years, than the 
other. Still, is it not only a question of time till the 
affinity between them becomes perfect ? There is 
no hope for that little child — nothing but ruin, 
remorse, and death ! J am about to turn away from 
the object before me ; from the bloated countenance, 
the lewd leer, the gaudy finery, and the air of un- 
blushing effrontery ; when the features remind me 
of one I had once known. Only a few short years 
ago she was the darling of her parents, the pride of 
society — honored, worshipped, and idolized by all. 
Then came the tempter, and then was taken the one 
false step. A step that could never be regained; for 
the moment it was made, an inaccessible mountain 



96 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

arose behind her, and cut her off from the world. 
While her betrayer was received into society with 
open arms, she, whose love had caused her to sacri- 
fice all, was lost forever. But such is the way of 
the world. He who takes up arms against public 
opinion, but writes his own epitaph. Galileo tried 
it, and met with persecution ; Spencer, Huxley and 
Tyndall are still struggling with a stubborn world. 
To argue that the wealth squandered on all the 
massive piles of marble raised in worship of Him 
who preached on the mountains, could be better 
expended in charity, is to hazard the epithet of 
infidel. I, for one, believe with Dickens, that God 
looks with a lenient eye upon those sins arising from 
love ; — but 

" The sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven, 
By man is curst alway." ±= ' m . '~~". 



DADDY'S DUST. 

WHAT makes you cry, Ma ? " asked little 
Bertie, pleadingly, as he arose from his seat 
near the hearth and approached his mother, laying 
his head in her lap. 

" Oh, nothing, child ! I was only thinking of your 
poor father, and how much happier we would be if 
he were alive," returned Mrs. Murdock, drying her 
eyes. She did not wish her little son to see that she 
was in pain, but the bright eyes and quick ears had 
discovered her sorrow, and so she tried to quiet his 
fears by reminding him of his father — a name he had 
learned to love from hearing her repeat it so often. 

But Bertie seemed lo doubt whether that was the 
cause of her trouble, for he rolled his large blue eyes 
about till they rested upon his mother's face, as 
though he could read in her tears more than she 
seemed willing he should know. He had never seen 
her so worried before, and he could not bring him- 
self to think but that some fresh trouble had arrived, 
for to him it seemed a long, long time since his father 
had set out on his last journey. Indeed, Mrs. Mur- 
doch's tears did not spring from the long dim vista 



98 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

of the past : her cup of sorrow was overflowed by a 
new disaster. But she did not wish to worry her 
little child ; besides, he would not have understood 
her had she told him. Childhood is made happy 
by knowing few cares. 

John Murdock had been an unambitious man. 
He was a child of the people, and grew up without 
any desire to advance himself. He was a common- 
place man — there was nothing beautiful in the world 
to him. As long as he had enough 10 eat and drink, 
he was content. He had heard of men who devoted 
their lives to their fellows, and who had been left to 
starve for their pains. He thought them fools, and 
could not see how they benefited the world, for did 
it not continue to advance after they were dead ! 
When he arrived at the age of manhood he married, 
but his marriage was only one of convenience ; his 
wife was the owner of a house, and that would save 
him the necessity of paying rent. But his expenses 
were increased, while his income remained the same. 
He was too ignorant to practice domestic econorrfy, 
and spent his money when he was married as he had 
done when he was single. He never thought that 
by retrenching one outlet he could supply another 
which was more pressing. Nor did he stop to con- 
sider that the price of one round of drinks among 
his tavern cronies would keep his family from 
starving a whole day. 

Thus matters went from bad to worse, till Sutter's 
discoveries in California offered him a way out of 



DADDY S DUST. 99 

his difficulties. Murdock was among the first to be 
seized with the gold-fever, and resolved to join the 
band of careless, mercenary adventurers. His 
chances seemed worth any hazard, and he did not 
scruple to ask his wife to mortgage the house, so he 
could have money to pay for his passage and outfit. 
Mrs. Murdock consented. She was weak-minded-r 
even more so than is usual with the sex — and what 
little individuality she once possessed had long since 
been mingled with her husband's stronger nature. 
She married for love, giving up her comfortable 
home and all the pleasant associations of her girl- 
hood, fully expecting to have a happier life. She 
never stopped to think that worldly happiness is 
visionary, and made up partly by hope and partly 
by imagination. Her married life fell far short of 
what she had anticipated, and became so lonely until 
at last she had resort to the mission-house. She 
organized a Dorcas-club among her fellow-disconso- 
lates, who made red flannels for the heathens while 
the hungry and naked poor of the parish were told 
to have faith and put their trust in God, and became 
a prime-mover in all revivals. The seeds thus spread 
rapidly took root : she grew estranged from the 
world, from her home, from her husband, and from 
herself. After gradually drifting into spiritualism, 
she at last became a monomaniac on the subject of 
cremation, upon which many pamphlets were current 
at the time. Woman-like, she had little self-reliance, 
basing all her opinions upon the thoughts of others, 



IOO STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

opinions which could be changed as easily as they 
were formed. The birth of her child recalled her 
lost womanhood, motherly instinct made her once 
more a wife, and she returned to her husband and 
her home. But her predilection for cremation was 
not effaced. Indeed, her last words at parting with 
her husband were to the effect that, should anything 
happen him, he would not be buried among the 
wilds, but would send his ashes home. Murdock 
laughingly gave her his promise, for he had learned 
to humor his wife in her one absorbing hobby. 

The weary months that followed brought few 
tidings of the wanderer, and those few were dis- 
couraging. Murdock attributed the results of his 
lack of perseverance to ill-luck. Most of the diggers 
around him became rich, and many made fortunes 
out of the claims he had deserted as worthless. 
When the first pan of dirt did not show a shining 
nugget at the bottom of the cradle, he commenced 
to dig in a new place, and although he worked very 
hard, he did so without a purpose, and for the bene- 
fit of those who followed. 

For two years Mrs. Murdock supported herself 
and son by needlework, during which time her hus- 
band's letters became fewer and fewer, until at last 
they ceased. Then came the news that he had been 
killed in a railway accident. Despite the vehemence 
of her despair, she never once forgot the promise 
her husband had made, and when shortly afterward 
an expressman delivered her a box, she regarded it 



DADDY S DUST. IOE 

as the last chapter in his career. And sure enough, 
it contained a large earthenware jug, much resem- 
bling an urn. She placed it on the mantelpiece, and 
guarded it with jealous and reverential care. 

As Bertie grew up> his mother instilled into his 
mind a regard for the vase, until he venerated it as 
something holy. Often would he bring in some of 
his playmates to take a peep at " Daddy's dust," 
as he familiarly called it, when his mother was out 
of hearing ; but he would never approach too near, 
for fear of hurting it. When some youngster, more 
daring than the others, evinced a sneaking curiosity 
to examine the urn, little Bertie would double up 
his chubby fists and thrash him most heartily. 
Once, when his mother chided him for fighting thus, 
he replied : " Mamma, I'd die sooner than let any 
one touch it, because you love it so ! " 

Bertie was now a clever little fellow of six. He 
loved his mother, because she was the only friend 
and protector he had, and it made him sad to see 
her grieving. His head still lay in her lap, but he 
had not fallen asleep. He had been thinking what 
could have so worried his mother, when he suddenly 
remembered that Deacon Smith had been in the 
house during the morning, and that a very spirited 
conversation had taken place, in which he said 
something that made his mother cry. 

" What was the deacon doing here to-day ? " he 
asked. 

She kissed him, and did not answer. But when 



102 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

he repeated the question, her tears burst out anew, 
and she said : " I owe him some money, dear, and 
he said he would put us out of the house if it wasn't 
paid to-morrow." 

" But I won't let him. I'll hit him with Daddy's 
big stick ! " he exclaimed, passionately. 

" Hush, hush, child ; you don't know what you're 
saying. He has the law on his side, and I can do 
nothing." 

" I can, though ! " Bertie interrupted, jumping to 
his feet. "Billy Edwards says he is an awful coward, 
and only goes to church because he's afraid to die, 
for he knows the bad man would take him. Why, 
he makes his little boy tend his store every Sunday, 
and Billy once head him say that that took all the 
sin off his soul." 

She no longer attempted to check Bertie, and he 
continued reciting all he had ever heard about the 
deacon. At length bed-time came ; but he could 
not go to sleep. Though his mother had said she 
owed a great deal of money, he thought he could 
soon earn it. He had seen other boys working — 
why could he not do the same ? With a mind 
fraught with these doubting hopes he sank into a 
restless slumber. 

After breakfast the next morning he started in 
search of the money which was to pay off the mort- 
gage. When he had walked till he was tired a 
gentleman gave him a silver coin for holding his 
horse. It was more monev than Bertie had ever 



DADDV S DUST. 103 

owned, and he felt quite rich as he ran home, thinking 
how happy his mother would be. Quite out of 
breath, he ascended the steps and entered the sitting- 
room. As his mother was not there, he thought he 
would give her a surprise by putting the money on 
the mantel, and then call her. Jn his hasty care to 
place it in a conspicuous position, his hand jostled 
against the family jar, which tumbled down, breaking 
into a hundred pieces on the hearthstone. Poor 
Bertie's heart stood still, his tongue froze to the roof 
of his mouth, and his knees knocked together with 
fear, until his trembling limbs refused to support 
him, and he fell to the floor. The awful horror of 
what he had done was too much for him to bear. 
Every little sin he had committed came darting 
across his mind. There was the farmer with a big 
stick, holding in his hand the identical apple he had 
stolen years before. Then came the spinster, 
berating him for tying a can to her cat's tail. After 
scolding him till she became black in the face, her 
whole head changed into the cat, which continued 
swearing at him till he lost consciousness. 

Mrs. Murdock, hearing the noise, hastened into 
the room, and almost fainted at seeing the prostrate 
form of her son. Carrying him to a couch, she was 
returning for restoratives, when she perceived the 
fragments of the urn. Terrified by the discovery, 
she endeavored to collect the precious remains. But 
she started back and screamed, for her hands were 
running over with shining gold dust. 



THE BIRD OF LOVE. 

DEAR ALF. — They say that Jove laughs at 
lovers' perjuries. For the future comfort of 
my soul, I hope that correspondents' promises are 
included in the category of sinless sins ; for three 
weeks of my vacation have glided away without your 
having received one line from your truant compan- 
ion, despite the solemn vows he plighted at parting. 
But — though with no disrespect to your friendship — 
when one flees from the cares and bustle of the busy 
commercial world to seek rest in the solitudes of 
nature, among blooming flowers, waving trees, and 
sparkling streams, the farthest from his thoughts are 
the scenes he lately left. The heart of man is prone 
to novelty ; few men are content with their stations 
in this world. However prosperous they may be in 
business, they are ever jealous of the success of even 
their humblest rivals. I have no doubt but that 
many a monarch has often wished to lay aside his 
sceptre and take up the cross of the poor man. But 
enough of this moralizing. I am well aware you 
have little of the philosopher in your complexion. 
I have become habituated to rustic life and enjoy 



THE BIRD OF LOVE. I05 

it accordingly, but at first it was very dull and 
tedious. The fact is, that the old school of writers, 
many of whom never saw any more of the country 
than could be viewed from their garrets in Grub 
street or through the grated windows of a spunging- 
house, have given us such glowing pictures of 
pastoral life, that when one makes a pilgrimage to 
the shrine of Pan, he becomes dissatisfied with his 
surroundings, and chides himself for having left the 
comforts of a city home. But what with shooting, 
fishing, and basking in the sun, the days glide away 
with surprising rapidity. 

My dear Alf, I can imagine how surprised you 
will be when I tell you I have lost my heart on a 
guileless young dryad — a very charming and original 
little sprite, with whom I became acquainted under 
rather singular circumstances. During one of my 
matutinal sallies among the feathered tribe, I hap- 
pened to wing a plump partridge. Following in the 
wake of the fluttering bird through the gorse, I 
suddenly came upon a broad verdant plateau ; and 
there I met my fate. Standing before me was the 
most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I became 
rooted to the spot by the dazzling splendor of the 
vision. How captivating was the tout ensemble! 
The graceful, sylph-like form ; the sparkling blue 
eyes ; the flowing wealth of golden hair, upon which 
even the lengthening sunbeams seemed to cast a 
shadow ; the delicately chiselled nose ; the laughing 
mouth ; the ruby lips ; and the small feet and 



106 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

neatly-turned ankles, which the short dress failed to 
hide from my love -inflamed eyes.. O Alf ! You 
who have wandered only in fancy through those 
Elysian bowers described so well by Boccaccio, 
imagine the state of my feelings at that moment, 
and then remember that even the most lucid sallies 
of your imagination cannot but fall far short of the 
reality. 

At last I recovered from my trance, and saw that 
the young girl had my wounded bird nestled in her 
bosom. I was about to apologize for my seeming 
cruelty to Mr. Partridge, when she anticipated me 
with, ' Please, sir, may I keep this ? ' I hesitated a 
moment at the prospect of losing so delicious a 
breakfast, but as I took another survey of her 
charms, I sacrificed appetite to love. ' But,' said I, 
the bird is too badly hurt to live.' ' Oh, never 
mind that ; I don't want to keep it alive.' * Well, 
continued I, charmed by her tender feeling, 'at 
least let me have it sent to the city to be stuffed ? ' 
'Thank you, very much; but mother stuffs part- 
ridges splendidly ! ' — and as she spoke, she held 
the bird horizontally in one hand, while with the 
other she calmly wrung its neck. O Alf ! had I 
not felt myself entirely outwitted by this artful little 
nymph, I should have roared out laughing. But 
choking my rising choler, I lifted my hat and stalked 
off in the direction of the ranche. 

To make a long story short, she made such an 
impression on my heart that I cultivated an 



THE BIRD OF LOVE. 107 

acquaintance with her family, for like a skilful artist 
I commenced to work in the background before I 
put the finishing touches to the portrait, and so 
ingratiated myself in the good graces of her mother, 
that the whole village is agog with vague rumors of 
' that city chap.' 

When I write again, you may expect an invitation 
to the wedding of your friend, Jack Dalton. 



THE VAGABOND. 

" Let him who is without sin cast the first stone." 

HE had fallen into evil ways. Either his moral 
nature had not been strong enough to combat 
the trials and ceaseless troubles of life, or Fate had 
dealt hardly with him. 1 do not think it was the 
former. There was nothing faint - hearted about 
Bill ; nor was his life wholly bad or depraved. 
Roughing it for twenty years among the Rocky 
Mountains, after a childhood and youth in a New 
England village, had covered with a thick husk the 
innocent simplicity of his nature, and given to his 
exterior a rough and burly appearance. But the 
fruit beneath was as mellow as ever ; the steel - grey 
eye was still bright and piercing ; the forehead, now 
deeply furrowed, was yet broad and noble ; and 
even the bushy growth of whiskers could not hide 
the delicate outlines of the mouth, when a vision of 
happier days found expression in his countenance. 
But there was a certain sadness about him which 
time could not erase — some never-to-be-forgotten 
memory that haunted him continually. It made 
him reckless, and urged him on to deeds of useless 



THE VAGABOND. IO9 

folly and daring. Yet although his pensiveness 
drove him into solitude, he was a favorite with his 
fellow-miners, who regarded him with admiration 
and a feeling akin to pity. 

I had joined the camp rather for the sake of 
recuperating my health than from any pecuniary 
considerations. The mining fever had little attrac- 
tion for me ; nor were my professional duties likely 
to be much required. A camp of miners in those 
days seldom needed the services of a doctor. To 
be sure, quarrels were of frequent occurrence ; but 
they were ended in a few seconds. Each man knew 
the consequence of having hot words with a com- 
rade. He who drew the first was victor ; and by 
the time the smoke had cleared away there was little 
need of a doctor. 

I had taken a liking to Bill from the moment I 
saw him. Though somewhat effaced by rough 
scenes and rough men, there were traces of refine- 
ment in him not to be encountered among his 
comrades. His education was so general that I 
intuitively felt he had not been brought up to the 
life he was then leading. It was sympathy with his 
misfortunes, coupled with a desire to learn who and 
what he was, that made me become a Boswell to his 
Johnson. But his recluseness made me despair of 
ever penetrating through the rough garb he had 
assumed. With such a predilection for his welfare, 
it was with feelings of the most poignant regret that 
I saw Bill had fallen into evil ways. A short time 



IIO STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

before, his arm had received serious injury in the 
shaft gear. The boys helped him along as well as 
they could, and kept him employed doing small 
jobs about the camp. But Bill seemed to have 
become quite disheartened by the accident. He 
did not wish to be a burden on his mates, and 
though he would have done the same for any of 
them, his spirit was crushed by the thought of living 
on their bounty. He took to drinking, spending 
day after day locked up in his cabin. His strong 
constitution soon broke down, and he became a 
wreck of his former self. He associated with the 
most desperate characters, and was often absent for 
weeks at a time, returning for a debauch in his 
cabin with the money he had brought back. Where 
he got it, his comrades could only guess. I was not 
much surprised when one afternoon I saw Bill borne 
past my door on a stretcher, but hastened to him 
when I received word that he wished to see me. 

Bill was lying upon a pile of skins in one corner 
of the rude cabin. He half arose on my approach 
and nodded his head in recognition. This inhospi- 
table welcome did not astonish me, for of late Bill 
had grown unusually taciturn. But when he sank 
back on the couch with a low, long-drawn sigh, as 
one oppressed with weakness and pain, I hurried to 
his side. Feeling his pulse, I looked into his eyes. 
The sight quite unnerved me for a time. I had 
seen many men die, but never before had I perceived 
so vividly that sad, unearthly light of death. Bill 



THE VAGABOND. ! 1 I 

noticed my agitation and fixed his large eyes upon 
me until they seemed to pierce me through and read 
my inmost thoughts. Eying me thus for a full 
minute, he said, in a low, firm voice : 

" Doctor, must Bill pass in his checks this time ?" 

I hesitated. He took me by the hand, and look- 
ing me full in the face, continued : 

44 None of that, doctor. Tell me straight and 
honest if there's any hope?" 

When I told him he must put his trust in God 
and hope for the best, he became more resigned. 
Motioning me to a stool, he pointed to a shelf on 
which were pipes and tobacco, and a flask of spirits. 
I lighted a pipe and seated myself by his side. His 
head had fallen back on his arm, and his eyes 
remained closed for a long time. By the twitching 
of his muscles I saw that a violent mental struggle 
was going on within. At last he seemed to come to 
an understanding with himself, for he asked for a 
drink and propped himself up in the couch. 

" 1 felt I was dying, doctor, and that's why I sent 
for you ; not because 1 thought you could prolong 
a life that I'm now glad is drawing to a close, but 
because you could do more for me than any of the 
boys. I've something I reckon I should tell you, 
for I want to make my peace with my Maker. I 
once resolved to let my life remain buried in my 
bosom, but I then had youth and novelty to divert 
my thoughts. These wild scenes drove the past 
from my memory, and made me hope for happiness 



112 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

which my judgment should have told me I could 
never have. But the approach of death shows me 
that man can never be satisfied with this life, and 
that he must look for happiness beyond the grave." 

Bill remained silent for a time. I thought he was 
doubting whether he should confide his past history 
to a comparative stranger. He must have soon 
silenced any scruples he might have had, for he 
continued : 

"I was born in Massachusetts, in the town of 

W . At the age of twenty I'd received a good 

education and aided my father in publishing the 
weekly paper, of which he was the proprietor. 
Everything seemed bright for me : my occupation 
was congenial to my disposition, the inhabitants 
looked up to me, and I had the love of one whom I 
intended to soon make my wife. In the midst of 
my happiness, a small band of revivalists spread 
their tent among us, proposing to carry on a vigor- 
ous and lengthy crusade. The leader, Judas Cant- 
well, found lodgings at the home of my betrothed, 
whose parents were as poor as they were happy. * 
My father was greatly opposed to these enthusiastic 
Christians, saying that they debased human nature 
and brought ridicule upon religion by representing 
it as a stump-speaker does a dishonest politician. 
I thought he was too severe in his judgment, for 
they appeared honest and sincere men, although 
they did manage to get a good deal of money. 
Under the influtnce of Cant well, my Stella conceived 



THE VAGABOND. I 13 

an aversion to all worldly things, and was constant in 
her attendance at the meetings. Indeed, each of 
these men seemed to have taken some young and 
innocent girl under his especial care. I noticed a 
great change in Stella : she shunned her former 
companions; a weird, wild light had come into her 
eyes ; and she became subject to violent fits of 
hysteria. She no longer took any pleasure in my 
society, and my chaste caresses were met with looks 
of disapproval. I was driven nearly insane with 
her indifference during the few months that fol- 
lowed, by the end of which time her dislike for me 
had become too noticeable to be misunderstood. 
Not long after this, Stella's mother sent me a 
message, begging my immediate attendance. I 
responded hurriedly, and found the whole family 
plunged into the most vehement grief. It was the 
same old story. Under the garb of sanctity. Cant- 
well had gradually weaned Stella from her lover, 
from her father, and from her mother. When he 
had accomplished her ruin, he fled from the scene 
of his infamy. She remained in her room. Shame, 
humiliation, and the sudden realization of her mis- 
placed confidence, had undermined her health. I 
knelt by her bedside and prayed. With tears in 
her eyes she called God to witness that she had 
never intended to wrong me. By the most insinu- 
ating villainy, Cantwell had weakened her intellect 
and, under what is erroneously called religious 
excitement, betrayed her. She assured me that she 



114 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

was unconscious of all at the time, and had no 
power to resist him. I prayed God to forgive 
her, and told her I believed all she had said. I 
could not have said otherwise, for nothing could 
ever have made me doubt her. — But, doctor, was 
what she said true ? You know more about that 
than I do." 

The dying man's eyes were turned upon me. I 
could not evade his question, nor was it in my heart 
to tell him other than that truth which is so little 
understood. I assured him that what she said was 
true ; that, instead of being beneficial, all revivals 
had the most debasing effect upon weak-minded 
woman ; that what was called _ religious excitement, 
was the derangement of their nervous systems and 
the overpowering influence of passions which they 
would be ashamed to acknowledge ; and that a 
woman thus rendered oblivious was not to be hekl 
responsible. I told him that sudden conversions 
were seldom sincere ; and cited the instance of the 
most depraved characters who often startle one with 
the vehemence of their prayers at revivals, but who 
return to their haunts of sin when the excitement 
has left them. I also told him that St. Paul had 
discountenanced all such insincerity, when he said : 
" Hast thou faith ? Have it in thyself." My words 
comforted him greatly, for he was perfectly calm 
when he continued. 

" I was beside myself with rage when I left the 
house in search of the despoiler of my happiness. 



THE VAGABOND. I 15 

The news had spread, and I found an angry crowd 
gathered around the tent, which was being struck in 
great haste. The revivalists protested that Cantwell 
had nothing to do with them ; that they had met 
him during one of their peregrinations, and that he 
had followed them wherever they went. I knew 
they were lying, for he had superintended all their 
meetings. But what convinced me most, was the 
fact that he had always taken charge of the collec- 
tion-baskets. Cantwell was not to be found. I felt 
that God would not let him escape my vengeance, 
and employed a little boy to discover the destination 
of the enthusiasts. They spread their tent in a 
village some miles beyond, whither I rapidly fol- 
lowed. The meeting was in progress when I arrived, 
and, O God ! what were my feelings when I saw 
the despicable wretch exhorting his ignorant hearers 
to join the army of Christ ! I rushed toward the 
platform. He heard the noise, and turned, meeting 
me face to face. He made a movement as if to 
draw a weapon ; but I was upon him. Seizing his 
hands, with all the rage of blighted hopes and ruined 
happiness, I bore him back. His wrists snapped in 
two like pipe-stems. I grasped him by the throat 
and dealt him a blow between the temples. He fell 
backward with alow groan, and I lost consciousness. 
When I regained my senses, I found myself hemmed 
in by prison walls. The jailer said that Cantwell 
was dead — that his skull had been fractured by 
the fall. I got down on my knees and prayed in 



Il6 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

gratitude for the speedy retribution that had over- 
taken him. 

" The news of my incarceration soon reached my 
friends, and a party of the boys, under cover of the 
night, effected an entrance to my cell and liberated 
me. My Stella had already breathed her last, while 
her mother and her father were not expected to live. 
My friends supplied me with money, and advised 
me to escape. Why should I stay ? The public 
sympathy was with me, but the bigotry of the jury 
might have convicted me of a crime of which I felt 
innocent. My Stella was dead, her murder was 
expiated, I had nothing left to live for, so 1 was easily 
prevailed upon to follow their counsel. Twenty 
years have come and gone since then. If I have 
been reckless of my life, it was because I did not 
care to live ; if I have shunned the haunts of men, 
it was because their treachery drove me from them; 
if I have committed a crime, it was because my 
necessity was great ; if T fled without looking upon 
the last resting place of my love, it was because she 
was buried here — away down here where a fellow 
feels it the most," and as he spoke he placed his 
hand upon his heart. 

He ceased, because his breath had almost fled. 
A cordial revived him only for a moment. He ex- 
pressed a wish to be carried out in the open air, for 
he wanted to die with the bright blue sky above 
him. It would make him feel nearer to heaven, he 
said. The twilight was drawing on apace ; the sun 



THE VAGABOND. I 1 7 

was just dipping his golden disc beyond the distant 
hills. Bill was nearing his end. He was resigned, 
and I knew his death would be an easy one. I S3w 
him make a movement toward his breast, and, 
opening his buckskin jacket, I drew from his bosom 
the miniature of a beautiful girl. He had fallen 
back in my arms, and a smile of pleasure and 
gratitude lit up his ghastly features as I placed the 
picture to his lips. I asked him if he had any 
message to leave ; there was a tremor of his mouth. 
I bent down to catch his last words : 

' k Yes, tell the boys, Bill 's gone home ! " 



THE APOSTATE OF LOVE. 

SOME years ago I met with a very original 
character, Percy Milnes by name. A certain 
similitude of disposition made us firm friends, and J 
enjoyed his perfect confidence. He was young — 
one-and-twenty — but an excellent education and 
an extensive knowledge of the world made him 
appear much older. His individuality was distinctly 
marked, but so indigenous to himself that months 
elapsed before I could understand him. I gleaned 
much of his past history from a few fugitive express- 
ions he had let fall from time to time ; for he was 
usually very reticent in speaking of his private affairs. 
His father, who had been a linen-draper in London, 
died when Percy was but nine years of age. For a 
time his mother had continued the business^ but the 
responsibility proving too great, and affording at 
best but a precarious subsistence, she retired, and 
came to the new world. 

Trusting explicitly in the benignity of Providence 
to replenish their little store, they existed with no 
thought of the future. Although they lived frugally, 
within three years their little fortune had so visibly 



THE APOSTATE OF LOVE. II9 

diminished as to make it apparent that something 
must be done ; for in continual subtractions, with 
no additions, money soon vanishes. Percy, having 
a talent for painting, deemed it incumbent on him 
to meet the emergencies of fortune, and with little 
difficulty obtained employment. Urged on by am- 
bition, and disheartened by the miserable pittance 
he was receiving from his employers, Percy had, two 
years before I met him, opened a small studio of his 
own. What is known as prosperity in business, if 
traced to its source, will, in the majority of cases, be 
found to arise from hard work rather than from any 
freak of fortune. Thanks to his untiring industry, 
Percy scarcely knew an idle moment after the first 
few months had elapsed. It was here that he dis- 
played one of his chief characteristics. Unlike most 
young persons, he was not versatile, continually 
rushing headlong into Utopian enterprises, only to 
be cast aside for new schemes as soon as the novelty 
wore off. He never did anything hastily, but when 
his mind was once made up, he became as fixed as 
the north star. Whatever object he undertook, be 
it ever so trifling in its import, he never allowed it 
to flag, but persevered heart and soul toward its 
consummation. Still, he received little encourage- 
ment ; while the work was hard, the profit was pro- 
portionately small. He soon discovered that a lack 
of influential patrons not only operated greatly to 
his prejudice, but placed him under the control of 
his more fortunate collaborators. Even praise, 



120 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

which is so delectable to the heart and vanity of the 
youthful dilettante, was denied him. His labors 
consisted rather of finishing the work of others than 
originating any of his own. In short, he belonged 
to that vast army of supernumeraries who "fill in " 
the less important parts of the works of more suc- 
cessful rivals. Even though there was but little 
responsibility attached to this calling, yet, having to 
be executed carefully, it was very tedious and 
laborious. 

The sedentary life, incident to his occupation, had 
a most injurious effect upon Percy, particularly as 
he had been delicate from his birth. More than 
once I expostulated with him, advising him to relax 
a little from his labors, and take more out-door 
exercise ; but he remained obstinate to my sug- 
gestions. He was so hopeful. How the poor wan 
face would flush with honest pride, the toil-dimmed 
eyes sparkle with ambition, the compressed shoulders 
cast off their roundness, and the head assume its 
old-time carriage, as he confided to me his dream of 
the future ! With what a throb of self- congratula- 
tion would he show me the recent additions to his 
little bank account ! " Only two more years," he 
would say, " and then I shall reap the harvest of 
my labors." I encouraged him as well as I could, 
though my heart often prompted me to warn him 
against placing too much confidence in the flattering 
delusions of hope. But it seemed to me that this 
feeling of hope was the only thing which gave him 



THE APOSTATE OF LOVE. 12 1 

strength to cope with the importunities of the 
consumption that was slowly wasting him away. 
Nor was it long before my suspicions were verified. 
Percy's ambition was to spend a few years in Italy, 
where he would have a better opportunity of study- 
ing. Nor did he purpose going there alone. For 
nearly a year he had been engaged to Esther Gibson, 
a girl whom he loved with such a love as only he 
was capable of conceiving. Buoyed up by these 
endearing hopes, he labored on with unceasing 
patience, but to the detriment of his health. 

Percy was so sanguine of ultimate success, living 
with only the one object in view, that, although the 
course of his love was anything but smooth, I could 
not but encourage him in his ambition. Esther's 
parents were opposed to the match, for many rea- 
sons ; not the least being his unpromising prospects. 
This, to me, seemed a most stubborn obstacle in his 
way ; for however much she might love him, the 
remonstrances of her parents could not but weaken 
her affection, as their engagement must of necessity 
be a prolonged one. Despite the assurances he 
gave me of her professed constancy, I still harbored 
misgivings. If the majority of similar cases were 
analyzed, hypocrisy would be found lurking behind 
these protestations of faithfulness. There are few 
passions so incident to woman as the spirit of 
contrariety, and she appears to derive a certain 
satisfaction from the knowledge that she is thwarting 
the wishes of her parents. But, eventually, this 



122 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

conflict so lessens her love, that the slightest un- 
pleasantness is liable to create a breach. The 
reason I thought of this in Percy's case was, that he 
was subject to periodical spells of despondency. 
When these fits of melancholy came upon him, he 
grew very fretful and morose, and often insulted his 
most intimate friends with his unbridled sarcasm. 
I, who knew him so well, never paid any attention 
to what he said during these odd intervals, for any 
admonitions could not but result in a quarrel. He 
was aware of this failing, and frequently counselled 
me to never take offense at anything he might say, 
for at those times he labored under an irresistible 
impulse. As he had only been accustomed to them 
of late years, he hoped they would entirely disappear 
upon the consummation of his longings. 

When the summer came I felt very sorry for 
Percy, for I knew that Esther always spent that 
season among her relatives in the country. But he 
bore the pangs of separation better than 1 had 
expected. While he suffered intensely, a flood of 
tears frequently came to mitigate the anguish of his 
mind. 1 often compared them to a rainbow of love, 
for the sunshine of his heart seemed to be piercing 
the mists that filled his eyes. 

But the separation was destined to be of longer 
duration than he had thought. Esther did not 
return home when expected, but at the close of the 
summer Percy received a letter, in which she asked 
him to release her from her engagement. I saw him 



THE APOSTATE OF LOVE. I 23 

the subsequent evening, when he handed me the 
fatal epistle, saying, as he did so, that it was all over. 
I was surprised at his calmness, but I should not 
have been so, for his grief was too intense to find 
vent in outward expressions. I should have looked 
within for the vestige of the struggle he was having 
with the remonstrances of misfortune ; for as the 
continual dripping of water will wear away the 
hardest rock, in like manner will the silent tears of 
sorrow operate upon the heart. I noticed that he 
no longer took any interest in his studies, and that 
the trip to Italy was relinquished forever. I en- 
deavored to solace him, but my rhetoric was of no 
avail. All his hopes had been based on the one 
object, and his nature was too unyielding to ever 
allow him to cherish another. Because Esther no 
longer loved him was no reason why his love for her 
should be smothered. The average person, in 
Percy's position, would have discarded all thoughts 
of Esther from his mind, laboring under the delusion 
that he had to turn his former love into hate, for the 
purpose of retaining a certain indescribable some- 
thing which mortals call Dignity. It is all very well 
to be dignified, but no man should allow it to warp 
all the finer sensibilities of his nature. Percy's 
spirit was not vindictive, so he could derive no 
comfort from becoming dignified. If there had 
been less sincerity in his nature the gaunt fingers of 
sorrow would not have left their indelible imprint 
upon his heart. But after all, it was only hope that 



124 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 

had sustained him the past year, for the moment his 
sole ambition had vanished, he fell a victim to that 
slow-paced death — consumption. 

The winter dragged slowly on. Each day Percy's 
form became more and more emaciated, his cheeks 
more shrunken, his step less firm, and his eyes more 
hollow. He who had never given way to levity now 
seldom smiled. But he did not long weary heaven 
with his sorrow. The hacking cough, in its mono- 
tone, seemed to mark off the days of his existence. 
When spring came, before the birds began to sing, 
and the flowers to bloom, the soothing hand of death 
put the period to his life's pilgrimage. 



